


A Grand Gesture

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [8]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Battle, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erebor, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Shock, Still not a healthy relationship, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 33,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Set a year and a half after Epilogue. Thorin, never quite secure, makes a grand gesture to impress his Hobbit. Well, it impresses him alright. Depending upon how you use the word "impress."
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/376136
Comments: 29
Kudos: 29





	1. The Book

Thorin was not jealous that Bilbo was studying Sindarin. Not at all. Not in the slightest. In fact, he approved. It was a good idea. It was late-summer now, their second summer since Thorin’s resumption of the throne, and the rebuilding of Erebor was continuing apace. He was busy. 

Bilbo had duties of his own, mostly in supervising the terrace gardens, and attending various administrative meetings with his king, and emissaries from Dale and Mirkwood. But the Hobbit had some free time, and had begun his linguistic improvements with the encouragement of Legolas ( _ever the helpful, supportive friend,_ Thorin mused, a shadow of darkness passing faintly over the thought.)

But Thorin was certainly not jealous. In the evenings, it was rather charming, in fact, to see Bilbo sitting at his writing desk in the corner of the master bedroom, a lamp at his elbow, his feet tucked up on the rung of the chair beneath him, his curls dangling over his brow, carefully dipping his pen in the jar of ink to transcribe conjugated verbs from the large green book, its cover well-embossed with gold.

“Is that the book Ori sent down from the library?” Thorin asked, leaning back in his comfortable chair, thinking that it had been several days since his Hobbit had unraveled the royal braids, and combed them out, and rebraided them again with new beads. 

Thorin reached out a restless hand to toy with the hand-carved wooden bowl on the end table at his side. The bowl was smooth and highly polished, and held a glittering collection of hair ornaments. He ran his fingers through the shining beads, causing them to rattle just a bit. Perhaps he hoped Bilbo noticed.

In the silence, he heard the scratching of Bilbo’s pen on the paper.

Thorin looked over again at his studious lover. “Is it?” He repeated.

“Mm?” Bilbo was scowling faintly at an Elvish noun. “You know, they have two kinds of plurals,” he murmured.

“Do they,” Thorin responded drily, turning again to gaze into the fire with hooded blue eyes.

“It’s incredibly complex. Hobbits don’t have half of these features… we don’t even have a concept for them. Two different ways of saying YOU… formal and informal. It’s all just YOU to us…” Bilbo trailed off again, deep in concentration.

Thorin reached up with a lazy hand and swept his dark hair out of his collar to let it tumble temptingly down over the back of the chair. He stretched out his legs, digging his bare heels into the thick fur before the fireplace and looked hopefully back at his Hobbit again.

“I’m surprised Ori had such a book in our library,” he said.

Bilbo turned a page, “Oh, no, he didn’t,” he said, and then grew distracted again, peering at something printed there. “Oh, some of them don’t change by the ending, they change in the middle—(he sighed)—this is very complex.” He repeated.

Thorin felt some tension gathering between his shoulder blades. A nice massage from his brilliant little Consort would be just the thing. But he was hovering over that green and gold book, which was NOT from Ori.

“Did Elrond send it?” He asked, one bare foot rotating restlessly.

“Mm? Oh, no, that’s—“ Bilbo put his pen down and picked up a smaller, blue book from beyond the lamp. “That’s this one,” he looked up finally, noticing his King’s long, alluring hair draped invitingly over the back of the chair. Thorin turned his head again, and the Hobbit admired the sharp profile against the firelight.

Smiling, Bilbo put his paper in the book and closed it, carefully marking his place, and then rose and left his studious corner. Someone was clearly in need of attention tonight. He came up behind his King and sank his hands into the thick, dark waterfall of hair. “Shall I re-do your braids?”

“If you would,” Thorin responded, his foot still moving like a cat’s tail twitches when it’s not entirely at peace. “Did Gandalf give it to you?”

“Give what?” Bilbo asked over his shoulder as he trotted into the bathing chamber to retrieve a brush for Thorin’s hair.

The foot’s activity increased a bit. “The green and gold book on Sindarin you’ve been studying so attentively for the last three days.” Thorin was being very concise. It should not be so difficult to get a straight answer.

Bilbo returned with the brush. “Oh no. I haven’t seen Gandalf since…”

“I thought he may have sent it,” Thorin said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as the brushing commenced. 

“No, he sent a book on herbs and healing. It’s over there on my bedside table.” Bilbo carefully gathered up the thick, fragrant tresses and brushed in the steady, firm manner his king found most relaxing. Thorin closed his eyes, and the Hobbit gazed down the stark, symmetrical contours of that face in the fire’s glow. “Four strands or three?”

“Four,” Thorin rumbled. “So who sent you that book? Legolas?”

Bilbo stopped to carefully pick at a small tangle. “Yes, Legolas delivered it along with some supplies he had for Tauriel. Apparently colloidal silver has healing properties, so she wanted some for—well, just to have on hand, you know.”

“He delivered it,” Thorin re-stated it contemplatively. 

Bilbo kept brushing, soothingly.

“I wonder where he found it,” Thorin added.

Bilbo inhaled carefully, and then said in his lightest tone, “Oh, well, as it happened, Thranduil found it, and just passed it along—“

The muscles on Thorin’s shoulders bunched up as he sat straighter in his chair and then turned and gave his consort a wondering look. “Thranduil loaned you a book on Sindarin?”

Bilbo licked his lips nervously and put the brush side, then turned his attention to sectioning off the tresses for the braid. “I don’t suppose he needed it, I mean, he already speaks Sindarin, doesn’t he?” He smiled a bit, and focused on the braid.

“When do you have to return it?” Thorin asked.

“Um… well, actually, he rather indicated that he didn’t want it anymore, so I—“

Thorin fixed Bilbo with an intense blue stare. “It was a gift,” he clarified in his deep, husky baritone.

“… Yes.” Bilbo finally said, braiding deftly. “I guess it was. Very kind.”

Thorin turned and sank back into his chair, glaring into the fire. His foot was still turning back and forth on the rug. “Very kind.” He repeated flatly.

Bilbo finished the braid in silence. Then, when he reached the end of it, he held it and said, “Which beads?”

Thorin brooded for a moment, and then said, “You choose.”

Without thinking, Bilbo picked up a green and gold bead, and Thorin saw it out of the corner of his eye and leaned away slightly in disapprobation. “But I will be wearing blue tomorrow,” he decided abruptly.

Bilbo quickly exchanged the offending bead for a blue and silver one. Thorin settled back into his chair. As Bilbo was finishing the second braid, his king lifted his head slightly. “That was very thoughtful of King Thranduil,” he said evenly, and even managed a smile for his Hobbit. But when he turned back to the fire, his eyes had narrowed.


	2. Diplomatic Visits

The delegation from Mirkwood was taking their leave, and Thorin accompanied them politely beneath the soaring, vaulted arches of the main hall toward the entrance of Erebor. With Thorin were Bilbo, Dwalin, and two palace guards. The delegation of four Elves included Legolas, who carried a neatly wrapped parcel respectfully in both hands. 

“I’ll convey your kind wishes to my father,” Legolas said formally, and then directed a friendly twinkle to Bilbo, “and your gift, of course.”

Bilbo gestured modestly at the parcel the Elf held in his deceptively delicate hands. “It’s just a token,” he said, and then uttered something in Sindarin that Thorin could not understand. 

But Legolas lifted his brows appreciatively, “Very nice!” He said approvingly.

Thorin felt Dwalin exhale beside him, too faint to be a sigh, but strong enough for his King to hear and savor their shared irritation.

“Until the next new moon, then,” Thorin rumbled, looking up at the Elf from beneath his black lashes.

Legolas made a shallow bow, as befits a Prince to a King. “Unless you have need of me sooner,” he said. It was what he always said. 

“Our continued alliance is a great comfort to my people,” Thorin said, bowing slightly in return. That was what _he_ always said.

“Is Bofur escorting you back?” Bilbo asked, looking beyond the Elves to the familiar silhouette outside the open gates.

“Oh yes. I don’t know what we’d do without him,” Legolas said with a straight face, and fixed his gaze on Bilbo. Then his seriousness fell into another conspiratorial twinkle. 

“Well, you’ll be safe with him at your side, I’m sure,” Bilbo returned with a similar aura of barely repressed amusement. Two of the Elves behind Legolas exchanged glances, looking very much like Dwalin felt.

Thorin’s gaze fell to the package in the Elf’s hands. Not for the world would he reveal that he had no idea what Bilbo was giving Thranduil, and was burning to know. _Thanks for the book, no doubt._ His nostrils flared slightly.

At last the Elves took their leave, and Thorin was able to retreat back toward the throne room, his blue and silver beads glinting against the deep blue velvet of his robe.

“Another tiresome monthly round of ceremonial gift-giving complete,” he muttered. 

“It was just some pine cones.” Bilbo said quietly.

Thorin stopped, a smile tugging at his lips. “You gave the Elf King pine cones?”

Bilbo stopped too, looking up at him. “Well, silver ones. Bofur made them!”

Thorin’s smile faded. “Oh.” He turned to cross the tapestry, his consort stepping quickly beside him. 

“Was that not right?” Bilbo asked nervously.

“Perfectly appropriate,” Thorin assured him, but there was a flatness to his voice that was still noticeable when he was forced to speak of Elves.

“Oh. Good. Well then. I guess I’ll check on the terraces,” Bilbo said, and moved away to the nearest set of stairs.

Thorin and Dwalin watched the departure of the Hobbit in silence for a moment. Then Dwalin spoke in his low rumble.

“He’s practically one of them. Green, leafy… nature dwellers.” It was not a compliment.

Thorin brooded for a moment, and then gave his old comrade a friendly slap on the shoulder before turning to retreat to the inner offices behind the throne room. 

Dwalin watched his King cross the brilliant red tapestry and then suddenly come to a halt as if an idea had struck him. Slowly, the figure in blue velvet turned back and crossed the tapestry, drawing close again.

“Dwalin… I need you to choose six of the finest carpenters and send them to my offices after lunch today,” Thorin said to Dwalin. “But… no one from our original Company. Can you do that?”

Puzzled, Dwalin nodded. “Of course.”

Thorin nodded thoughtfully, eyes distant. “Choose ones who can keep a secret.”

Dwalin gave a slight bow. “It shall be done.” He watched in bemusement as his King drew back and took his leave once more.

Something to do with the Hobbit, Dwalin was sure.


	3. Construction

It was in autumn that Bilbo was startled from his second breakfast by a thunderous, rattling explosion coming from the direction of the terraces. 

“Oh! What…? What…??” He fumbled his buttery toast to his plate and pattered quickly to the door, opening it and looking this way and that. He rather expected to see a surge of alarmed dwarfs barreling up the passageway in the direction of the attack, but there was no one.

“It must be more construction,” he told himself uneasily. If there was one thing he’d learned in the last year, it was that when dwarfs said _rebuild,_ they did not fool around. But most of the explosive work had been done early on, breaking fallen edifices into smaller bits for removal, or clearing collapsed mines and passageways.

And never so high up within the mountain.

Bilbo dithered for a moment more and then decided to investigate for himself. The terraces and gardens were his responsibility, after all.

To his consternation, however, when he rounded the last bend, he found that the passageway that led to the outside, to the viewing rock, the gardens, all of it, was sealed off with floor to ceiling wooden barricades. This had not been so just two days ago! He’d gone out to send a crow-mail to Elrond (discreetly) and admire the changing leaves on the trees down around the path to Dale.

But now it was completely blocked off!

Bilbo fussed around the edges of the wooden sheets, picking with his fingers, hoping they were merely propped there without being secured, but no such luck. 

“Bilbo!” He had not heard Thorin approach.

Turning, the Hobbit tried to tamp down his rather frantic reaction. “I… I heard an explosion on the terraces and now I can’t… look at this! Look at this, what are they doing out there??”

“Ah,” the King came forward and took his lover’s hand gently. “It’s just a bit of rebuilding. But I wouldn’t want you out there. It’s too dangerous. Come back and finish your breakfast, and then… weren’t you going to consult with Tauriel about some translation of your herbal remedies?”

But Bilbo didn’t allow himself to be drawn off. “Thorin, they must be trampling all through the gardens out there! It’s not just flowers and herbs, you know, that’s our food supply! Well, part of it. Some of it, I mean. The vegetables and spices, and… what would they need to rebuild out there?”

“It’s a watch tower.” Thorin said, putting an arm around his shoulder and coaxing him away more firmly.

“A watch tower? On the side of a mountain, that doesn’t make any sense, Thorin don’t… don’t drag me. I just want to go out and make sure… oh and sunlight! Whatever they’re building out there is going to cut off the sunlight to my gardens!”

“No, no it won’t, they have instructions not to … let that happen.” Thorin assured him.

Bilbo was increasingly uneasy. “How will they know? The direction the sun is coming from now isn’t the same as it will be in spring…. Let me go!” He finally yanked himself free of his King, whose brows were lowering in that telltale way.

“Bilbo… I forbid you to go out there.” Thorin said finally, staring him down.

Bilbo tensed. They rarely had confrontations anymore. Thorin had made it clear that he was King, and Bilbo had made it clear that he could leave. Since then, they had managed fairly well. Only occasionally did the dwarf turn to him and in that serious manner, lay down the law and stare until Bilbo subsided into submission.

“But it’s my garden!” Bilbo protested. It was the only area of the kingdom that was his, and Thorin had allowed him full authority.

“They will take care. But… Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice and gaze softened. “They are working with explosives and heavy materials. It is dangerous. One accident and I could be without my Hobbit! You are not going out there… nothing in that garden is irreplaceable. But you are. Come.” 

Fretting, Bilbo was led away by his protective king and guided back into their bedchamber for a little cuddle on his king’s lap.

“Promise me you won’t go out there,” Thorin murmured into that sensitive Hobbity ear as he nuzzled it. Bilbo shivered.

“I… I promise, but—“

“No buts.” Thorin said firmly, squeezing him tightly. 

“I can’t breathe!”

“I’m squeezing the _buts_ out of you,” Thorin whispered smilingly.

“Alright, alright. I promise.” Bilbo grumbled, and his king rewarded him with deep kisses and slow nuzzles that left him breathless and squirming. Thorin smiled and carried him to the bed, and made him squirm and gasp a great deal more.

But later, Bilbo fumed over the likely state of his garden, and wondered how long the construction would go on. It was not just his garden; it was his shortcut to daylight, and the outside world. His beloved view of Mirkwood, and the path to Dale was there. Now if he wanted any fresh air, he’d have to go out on the battlements, or down to the main gate, and those were just not favorite places of his.

Thorin was up to something, it was obvious. A watch tower over the garden on the side of a mountain, that was ridiculous. Bilbo simmered over it.


	4. Still Construction

It was the last clear day before the snows would come, and Bilbo was increasingly agitated. He had planned a little shopping trip to Dale, just for odds and ends, nothing he couldn’t send someone else to get, but that wasn’t the point. It was nice to get out of the mountain sometimes, put a basket over his arm, and go into the sunshine! It was nice to wander about the shops, browsing as if he were just a normal Hobbit again, in the Shire, or Bree. Everything was a little taller in Dale, of course, but it was still pleasant. He was popular and (he didn’t dwell on that, even to himself, out of modesty, but) people were kind to him, and greeted him by name, and seemed happy to see him. 

Shopping trips to Dale were just a pleasure. Usually Bilbo was accompanied by a friendly dwarf or two, for Thorin was ever mindful of his safety…. Bombur was actually his favorite shopping companion. They thought alike on most culinary issues, and the free samples they pounced on together, oh! It was like wine tasting with an expert.

But now Thorin had decided that Bilbo should not go shopping to Dale!

“It’s dangerous,” the King decided. “There’s a great deal of construction going on and shards of rock occasionally tumble down the side of the mountain onto the path.”

They were having their breakfast in their suite when Thorin decided this. Bilbo lowered his fork, stunned.

“When I said yesterday that I was going to go today, you didn’t protest!” Bilbo said. 

Thorin avoided his eyes, heaping more bacon onto his plate. “But then I remembered that the path goes directly under where the watch tower is being constructed.”

“Yes, well, that’s another thing. I haven’t been able to go out there for a month now, and I wanted to at least be able to see from the outside what is going on up there. How long does it take to do—whatever you’re really doing up there?” Bilbo finished tartly.

“As a matter of fact, I may have to close the path to everyone. So if there is something you desire, tell Bombur and he can add it to his list that he’s sending to have delivered when the construction is complete.” Thorin was very focused on his plate.

Bilbo was clutching his fork in distress. “How much longer…??”

Thorin finally looked up at him and smiled. “I think it is only a matter of days now. Perhaps a week.”

That pacified Bilbo to some extent, but he was still of a mind to negotiate. “What about if we don’t follow the path, but cut out around onto the plains a bit—“

“I know you,” Thorin said, his smile fading to an intent look. “You’ll start out that way and then decide that this is nonsense, it takes too long, the path looks fine—“

Bilbo sighed and looked aside guiltily. 

“Just wait a week.” Thorin finished.

Grumbling, Bilbo returned to his breakfast. “I wish you’d told me yesterday. I was all ready to go.”

Thorin poured himself some more tea. “How about a tour of the new ruby mine? It’s quite a sight,” he offered.

Bilbo peered at him. “It’s on the far side of the mountain. Do you have time to spare to take me on a tour?”

“No, but I could summon Dwalin to take you.”

Bilbo scoffed. “Dwalin wants to drop me down a mineshaft. No thank you. I’ll just… I’ll just study in the library I guess.” His tone was dejected.

Thorin had stopped eating and was looking down at his plate in consternation. “Dwalin… does not dislike you that much,” he said slowly, as if he were suddenly not sure of that himself.

Bilbo gave another snort. “I’ve seen how he looks at me. He is the last dwarf I’d want to be alone with. And…” something else occurred to him, “… in a week the snows will be here and I won’t be able to go to Dale for months! This is the last opportunity, truly, Thorin, I think you’re being overly cautious. I really would like to go to Dale today,” he finished firmly, but it was a bluff.

Thorin looked at him very somberly. “I’m sorry.” His tone was firm too, and Bilbo knew another losing battle loomed before him.

He sighed unhappily and dug into his eggs, smashing them with his fork in thinly veiled rebellion, and decided…

He needed to talk to someone. 

Elrond would be ideal, but now even crow-mail was difficult because he’d have to hang about the battlements to find a crow, and that was much less private than his little spot between the viewing rock and the terraces. Only a few dwarfs even knew how to get there, and since Thorin’s reinstatement, it had come to be thought of as Bilbo and Thorin’s private retreat. Only Bombur ever came through to gather from the garden. But the battlements… all sorts came up there. It was practically a tourist destination.

Who could Bilbo go to, then, and say carefully, _Is Thorin getting strange again?_ Gandalf had not graced them with his presence for months, and anyway, he wasn’t the best choice. He might react by plotting to separate them again. 

Ori was too young to confide in. 

Legolas was rarely in Erebor, and never alone. 

Tauriel would confide in Kili, and Kili would bounce right up to his uncle demanding to know why he was making Bilbo nervous again. 

Fili was kind, but rather than discuss it, he would listen quietly, absorb it, and then start worrying without confiding in return. 

Bofur would get angry on his behalf and start acting hostile around Thorin again. 

Bombur, like Fili, would worry without being able to offer much insight. 

Oin and Gloin he wasn’t that close to. Nori and Dori were visiting relatives in the Blue Mountains.

And Dwalin, ha. He would really like to drop Bilbo down a mineshaft, of that the Hobbit was certain. 

Balin…. Balin might do. He was tactful, and not much worried him in excess. He would set about finding Balin this morning, Bilbo decided. He looked up to see Thorin was watching him closely.

“Very well. I won’t go to Dale,” he said meekly.

Thorin’s mouth relaxed in a small smile, and gaze wandered over Bilbo’s face warmly. His voice was husky when he murmured, “Soon the construction will be complete, and perhaps you’ll like what you see.”

That seemed like the Thorin he was most comfortable with, and the pressure around Bilbo’s heart eased a little. He smiled weakly. But he was still going to talk to Balin.


	5. Balin

Balin had offices not far from Thorin’s, and there Bilbo went as soon as Thorin had left to inspect the armory. 

The kindly, white-haired old dwarf looked up from his scrolls, over the glasses on his tremendous nose, and blinked in surprise. Bilbo rarely looked him up.

“Come in, laddie, don’t hover at the door. Come in. Have a seat…. Well, just move those scrolls and… there we go. What’s brought you to my door?”

Bilbo chewed his lip for a moment, and then carefully got back up closed the door. Balin’s eyebrows went up further. Clearly this was a talk that required privacy.

The Hobbit’s hazel eyes searched the old dwarf’s visage for a moment, and then he said without preamble, “Is Thorin getting strange again?”

Balin broke into a chuckle. “Ah! Well! … ah… no, I haven’t noticed him being any stranger than normal.”

Bilbo, he noticed, had a handkerchief in his hands that he was fidgeting with. “He doesn’t seem to want to let me go anywhere near where the new watch tower is being built. Up by the terraces.”

A change came over Balin’s face, and he looked both serious and abstracted. “Oh. Right. Well…”

Bilbo added rather disparagingly, “He seems to think it’s inordinately dangerous for me to be around construction.”

Balin was nodding already. “Of course. Yes. Well. Ah… he’s right. Construction sites are no place for a Hobbit. Dwarfs, you know, we just throw things. One rock to the head and you wouldn’t know your own name anymore. Best to stay well clear of it.”

They looked at one another. Balin put on a reassuring smile. 

“Then I wanted to go shopping in Dale, and Thorin said the path to Dale goes too close to the site and something could come rolling down the mountain and hit me. So now I can’t go to Dale.”

Balin looked as though he was mentally tracing the path. His gaze traveled around in a semi-circle, and then up to the ceiling. His eyebrows did a quick dance. “Right. Right, yes. No. Yes. He wouldn’t want you… down there.” 

Bilbo watched suspiciously as the old dwarf nodded when he said NO, and shook his head when he said YES, and in general seemed to agree with Thorin that Bilbo shouldn’t be anywhere near the new construction.

“It’s just… it’s my last chance to get out of this mountain for a bit before the snows come,” Bilbo said plaintively.

Balin gave him a speculative look. “Ah yes. Living in a mountain must be difficult for you. You get tired of it…”

Bilbo couldn’t deny it, and stared down at the twisted handkerchief in his hands.

“… But it really is very dangerous. Maybe there’ll be some fine days after the construction is done! Surely it’s only a week or so more…?” Balin suggested gently.

Finally, the Hobbit relaxed a bit. Alright, clearly the King was doing something secretive around the gardens and wanted to surprise his consort. Fine.

Fine. Bilbo decided not to be difficult about it, and would be as surprised as ever he could be when the final unveiling came.

“Well, I guess I’ll just ask Bombur to order some cinnamon for me, and… I’ll just… study my Sindarin.”

“There you go!” Balin said jovially. 

Bilbo smiled and took his leave, thinking it was rather hard that he had to give up the last shopping trip of autumn so that Thorin could have his surprise, but… well. The things we do for love, right?


	6. Surprise

It was more than a week. It was nine days, Bilbo counted, but finally the morning came when, over breakfast, Thorin said in a studiedly casual voice, “I believe you’ll find the passage to the terraces is open this morning.”

Bilbo sat up alertly, eying his regal lover. “Is it now?”

His King was quietly vibrating with suppressed emotion, and his blue eyes were somewhat wider than usual. “After breakfast, perhaps you’ll let me show you my little project.”

Suddenly, the irritations of the previous two months were barely a memory, and Bilbo nearly squirmed with anticipation. “I’d be delighted!” he said, and finished his muffins and jam as quickly as he decently could. They glowed at each other over their plates.

“Come then,” Thorin said, pushing his chair back and sweeping his blue velvet robe out of the wardrobe and over his shoulders.

Bilbo slipped on his heaviest green jacket and made for the door, opening it with eager hands. 

“Ah, wait,” the King decreed, and produced a black swath of velvet from his pocket. “I believe I’d like you to be blindfolded.”

Bilbo paused at the door in consternation. “I beg your pardon??”

The dwarf stepped to him and wrapped the soft material around Bilbo’s curly head, covering his eyes and tying it behind. “Hm. You look rather fetching like this. I might want to do this again later.” Then without warning, he swooped his Hobbit up in the royal arms and carried him through the doorway and into the passageway.

Bilbo fussed all the way there, of course. “I can walk! Can anyone see us? This is rather undignified, you know! In fact, this is embarrassing! Put me down! Oh, it’s gotten cold. Can’t you put me down now? Just lead me, I can walk!”

“No, no… I wouldn’t want you to step on a stray nail.”

“Nail? Dwarfs don’t use nails—“ Suddenly he felt the fresh air on his feet and in his nose and knew they were outside. Even the blindfold couldn’t keep out the sunshine entirely.

Thorin carried him out and to the left, away from the viewing rock and around to where the terraces should be. ( _They’d better still be there,_ Bilbo thought nervously.) Then he felt the heavy footsteps come to a halt, and Thorin gently set his Hobbit down and removed the blindfold.

Bilbo blinked at the sunlight and quickly inspected the terraces. Oh, they were a mess! There were several huge clay pots of black soil all over the place, and everything looked well trampled. A large swath of canvas covered a pile of who knows what debris. The dirt beds were as plowed and churned as a pasture full of randy bulls. 

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo protested, eyes dismayed. They’d had one snow, but most of it had melted in the sun, and of course the garden was fallow now anyway and he supposed the trampling wasn’t the biggest issue, but—he looked around some more.

“I don’t see any watch tower!” He scolded, looking up. Indeed, there was no edifice there at all! 

Behind him, Thorin chuckled. “Keep looking. Surely something is different.”

Bilbo turned to see that they were not alone on the terraces. Three dwarfs whom he didn’t recognize were there, dressed in rugged gear and gathering up tools as if they had just finished their work and were clearing out. But they glanced over, smiling, as if they too wished to see the King’s Consort discover… whatever it was they had done.

“Yes, well, all these pots of soil are certainly new, what on earth—“ Bilbo commented, turning back… and then he saw it. Set in the side of the mountain, like a large green gem, was a door. A round, Hobbit door exactly the size and shape and color of his own in the Shire.

“Oh!” Bilbo said, staring. The next things he noticed were two small, round windows on either side of the door, exactly the same distance from the door that his windows at home were. The same size, shape… the same in every respect. “Ooohhh…” he breathed, and turned to stare at his King in almost fearful delight. “What have you done?” He breathed through his smile.

Thorin gestured. “Look and see!” He was savoring Bilbo’s reaction, eyes dancing.

Bilbo crept forward and turned the knob on the green door, pushing it in and stepping into the foyer. His feet met the smooth wooden floor with a pleasure he could feel right through the soles. With wondering eyes, he gazed around at the curved ceiling, the smooth, creamy walls, the golden brown wood of the frames and moldings… it was a perfect replica of Bag End.

“How did you—“ he breathed, and moved deeper into the snug smial. He looked down. “It’s the exact same rug… these chairs…” He moved further. There was a brick fireplace exactly like his own, and a fire was already dancing in it. Bilbo looked up to see the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the candles ready to be lit. He explored yet further, emitting little incoherent noises of wonder and disbelief. Thorin ambled in after him, satisfaction fairly blazing in his eyes.

To Bilbo’s utter astonishment, there was even a large, round picture window set with many rectangular panes of glass that looked out over the terraces, and from what he could see, it was identical to his window in the Shire. “This is amazing,” he muttered, eyes wide.

He turned to Thorin. “This is amazing!!” He repeated, registering his King’s gloating smile.


	7. Realization

Bilbo tore his gaze away from his pleased lover to continue his inspection of the smial. Everything was identical. The furniture. The decorations. The dishware…

“Wait,” Bilbo murmured, stepping to inspect the vase in the nook, the little model sailboat on the shelf… the table and chairs. “Wait… some of this is actually… mine. Mine from home. From Bag End, you got some of my things from Bag End…?”

Thorin looked around approvingly. “I promised I would send for your things. You thought I forgot, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted in a breathy voice. He was rather dazed. “I did… I did think you forgot…” he darted through the rooms and took in the chairs, the beds, the bedspreads, the dressers…

Coming back to where Thorin hovered in the dining room, Bilbo fixed him with an uncertain stare. “You… you sent for EVERYTHING, didn’t you?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. His furniture was no longer in Bag End??

Thorin merely smiled proudly. Bilbo looked around in bewilderment. Even the bricks that made up the fireplace looked as if they were weathered and blackened inside, and just above the arch… he looked closer, the fine hairs on his back and neck starting to prickle with unease. These looked exactly like his bricks at home. Exactly.

Backing away, Bilbo paused cautiously, and then stepped quickly around, eyes darting about, inspecting the woodwork with focused intensity. And then he saw something that made his stomach just… drop. The trim in one corner in the living room had notches in the wood, seven of them. One was about as high as his waist, another a finger’s breadth above it, and five more above, each one a little higher. Just like in Bag End. 

There was no mystery as to the notches; they were carved by Bungo Baggins over Bilbo’s curly little head when he was a lad. Each one on a birthday, to show how much his boy had grown.

Bilbo stared at the notches, and then around him at the smial, his delight having faded to something more like fright. Gooseflesh rose on his arms.

“This… this _is_ Bag End.” He said faintly, eyes round. He moved past Thorin to the front door again, stepping out into the sunlight and looking at the door closely. The minute marks and scratches that had accumulated over the years… the dent here from when his parents had moved in the new bed, so long ago… 

This wasn’t a replica of his hobbit hole. This WAS his hobbit hole: wood, frame, windows, doors, furnishing, contents… fireplace… flooring… everything.

He turned to stare at the dwarfs who had apparently done the (re)construction. His hands were growing cold with shock. “You—“

They looked as pleased with themselves as Thorin did.

Bilbo was finding it hard to inhale. “You… you… this is Bag End,” he repeated stupidly, his eyes staring.

“Every bit of it!” One dwarf with a black beard said rather boastfully. Behind Bilbo, he felt Thorin’s presence draw near. “We even brought as much soil from the garden as we could. Oh, but we didn’t know where you wanted the fence, so—“ the dwarfs turned and pulled the canvas up off the pile it covered, and Bilbo saw with tingling horror that it was the white picket fence that surrounded his garden in the Shire, removed in sections and brought to Erebor, carted up the mountainside, and deposited on the cold, rocky terrain in a heap.

Bilbo turned back and stared at the quaint smial embedded in the harsh, gray stone side of the mountain, his gaze flicking frantically over the door and windows, his mind stuttering in shock.

“Oh, and your bench,” added the dwarf behind him, and Bilbo heard a clatter, but he was too stunned to do anything but stare at his green door while prickles danced across his neck and back.

“So… Bag End… the Shire…. My home back in the Shire…” he stammered.

“Is a crater!” Guffawed one of the dwarfs. “We aren’t too popular back there I bet.”

The dwarfs chuckled together, including Thorin, who placed his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders lovingly and murmured, “Now you never have to miss Bag End again. It’s here. It’s all here. I brought it here for you.”

Bilbo felt cold all over. “Bag End is … gone?” He couldn’t speak above a whisper.

Thorin tipped his head and looked down at him, the breeze moving his long, dark hair slightly. “No,” he corrected him. “Bag End is HERE.”

“But the Shire… I have no home in the Shire anymore??” Bilbo lifted stricken eyes, finally, to stare up at his King.

Thorin gestured toward the smial with a touch of impatience. “It’s HERE.”

Bilbo stared again at the green door in the mountainside, but in his mind’s eye, he was picturing the devastation back at the Shire. His beautiful little home, his gardens, all torn away? _A crater,_ they’d said. 

Dizziness swept over him.

“It’s all gone?” He whispered. “My father… he built that for my mother!”

Thorin nodded. “And I brought it here, for you!”

“There’s nothing left—“ Bilbo breathed.

“Nothing there, no, because it’s all _here._ Everything you own is here now. With me.” Thorin said, looking rather like his grand surprise was not getting the admiration and gratitude he’d expected.

Bilbo went to his knees, and then to the ground. It wasn’t so much a faint as a laying-down-very-quickly-and-going-to-sleep-on-the-spot sort of thing.

Okay, it was a faint.


	8. Shock

Bilbo awoke in his bed. His own bed, constructed of golden maple, covered in sheets with pretty stitching along the seams, and his mother’s patchwork quilt over the top. Blinking, he looked at the flickering candles on his bedside table, and the flames dancing in the small bedroom fireplace. He saw the firelight warming the creamy, curved ceiling over his head, and then turned to look at the window, but it was black. Was it night? He squinted and realized that the window looked out onto the rock within the mountain. At home, that window looked out onto a grassy knoll, but he would never see sunlit grass and blue sky through that window again. This room would never see daylight again. Coldness settled on him, and Bilbo began to shiver.

He felt movement next to him in the bed, and turned back to see Thorin sitting at his side. 

“Are you STILL cold?” The dwarf rumbled in disbelief. He’d shed his velvet and his outer layers, and sat in the simple white shirt that he wore under his jerkin and cloak. 

Getting up, Thorin put another log on the fire, and then took another blanket from the wardrobe (Bilbo’s grandmother’s wardrobe) and spread it across the pale Hobbit in the bed. Bilbo stared at the squares of the quilt, recognizing the piece from his grandfather’s favorite shirt.

“It’s warm enough to melt wax in here,” Thorin muttered, dabbing his forehead with one of Bilbo’s little handkerchiefs.

Bilbo huddled under the blankets, icy with shock. He looked around his bedroom. It was all here. In the mountain. Not at the Shire. Never again at the Shire. He had nothing in the Shire but a crater and some furious neighbors.

His huge eyes went back to Thorin, who was regarding him resentfully from the middle of the room. Bilbo looked away again.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Thorin said quietly.

Bilbo looked back at him in disbelief, but was still reeling too badly to say anything. He looked beyond Thorin, up on the wall at the map of Middle Earth that the Brandywines had framed for his mother on her birthday. Hanging in exactly the same spot. Here, in Erebor. He blinked some more and pulled the blankets higher up under his chin. He couldn’t get warm!

“You always look through your drawing pad at those pictures of home,” Thorin added, in his own defense. 

“The ones with the sunlight and grass?” Bilbo asked pointedly, eyes burning.

“We tried to bring the grass!” Thorin snapped. “It died!”

Bilbo rolled his head away again in misery. They’d even killed the grass!

Silence reigned for a moment, and then Thorin stepped forward and felt Bilbo’s forehead. “You are abnormally cold,” he said, scowling. He looked around himself at the fussy, Hobbity little room. “I’m going to get Tauriel.”

Bilbo watched his King stride through the round doorway and heard his boots on the wooden floor, and then there was the slamming of the little, round green door. He shivered again, and then rolled on his side, feeling as if he had a headache but without the pain. He could never go home to the Shire again. On the other side of these walls was rock. His home was in Erebor, under the rule of King Thorin. All his eggs were in one basket now, by Yavanna. 

And his garden, oh stars, his garden. His beautiful garden, the work of decades. It was now in pails outside on the frozen terraces. Those roses were doomed. Slowly, Bilbo’s face crumpled and hot tears slid out of his eyes and into the fluffy pillow that still smelled of the Shire. Burying his face, he sobbed as he had not done since he was slave of the Orcs. Even in Smaug’s captivity, he had not cried like this. When he was despondent, he’d thought of home. His beautiful smial with sunlight streaming in the windows, and green grass all about, and flowers blooming, that was the happy place his mind had always gone to.

Now it did not exist. Now he had what felt like a dollhouse in the side of a mountain where Bilbo was not Lord and Master of his own little castle, his little Bag End. His home was in the domain of the King Under the Mountain. Bilbo squeezed his eyes closed, and cried himself back to sleep.


	9. Fireside Chat

“You did what??” Balin asked, laying his glasses on his little side table. He closed the book he’d been reading when his King stopped by his rooms.

Thorin was slumped moodily in the chair by his friend’s fireplace. “I thought he’d be pleased.”

“I thought you were just building a similar abode—“ Balin protested.

“A copy is never as good as the original,” Thorin stated, as if it were a proverb he’d memorized. 

“But to move his home and all his belongings away from his family and friends without his permission, Thorin…!”

“Family and friends,” Thorin snorted. “They all treated him like an oddity.”

Balin hesitated, and then rose and went to his liquor cabinet. “I think we need a drink.”

“He was homesick, so I brought his home _here,_ it was meant to show my… my devotion, my… my… concern for his feelings!”

Balin brought the two tumblers to their seats by the fire.

“I’m afraid it showed that as far as you’re concerned, what’s his is yours to do with as you please,” Balin told him gently, handing over the drink.

Thorin sniffed the brandy, lifted his eyebrows in a flick of appreciation for the vintage, and took a sip. “I wanted him to have something of his own here besides the gardens.” 

“Well… that’s commendable, I suppose…” Balin said uncertainly, eyes distant. “But you say he didn’t take it well?”

“He’s been in his bed since this morning, shivering. I sent Tauriel to tend to him. She says he’s in _shock,_ ” Thorin pronounced the word _shock_ as if it were an insult cast upon his person.

Balin looked up. “Oh, Oin has some tea for shock,” he said. 

“She already gave it to him.” Thorin grumbled, staring into the fire. His foot started rotating slowly.

“Have you been in to see him this afternoon?” Balin asked, for his policy was, when one cannot think of any advice to give, it’s best just to ask questions and draw out the sufferer, so that he can express himself at least. 

“He told me he wanted to be alone. Two months my men worked on that… little dugout. He’s in there crying as if I’d burned it down.”

Balin sighed. “Well, Thorin, imagine how you’d feel if, when you lived in Belegost, someone had—“

“Transported the Lonely Mountain, gold and all, to the Blue Mountains and said, ‘Here you go?’ I’d have been delighted!” Thorin snapped, eyes blazing.

Balin nodded in concession, thinking about it for a moment. Then he said, “But you didn’t bring the whole Shire, with the pretty trees and grassy hills, and that river Bilbo used to fish from—yes, he’s mentioned it. There was a stone bridge…”

Thorin’s lips gave a dissatisfied quirk. “Well, I’m not a wizard. I brought what I could. Now, if he wants to run off and hide from me—“

“He can, but he won’t be far away, will he?” Balin ventured.

Thorin’s eyes grew hooded and, as he continued to stare into the fire, the corners of his mouth lifted in a slight, cold smirk. 

Balin saw it. His old eyes widened.

“Oh, Thorin,” he said reprovingly.

Startled, the King glanced over at him. “What?”

“You didn’t do this for Bilbo, you did it for yourself! You did it so that he would have nowhere to go but here!” Balin said with the gently reasonable tone of one pointing out to a small child that he’s done A Very Bad Thing.

Thorin looked as if he’d bitten into a peach pie that turned out to be fish. “No—“ he protested. He thought it over, looking mortified. “No,” he said again. 

Then, trying for a bit of levity, he added, “If Bilbo wanted to leave me, all he’d have to do is send a crow and there’d be an army of Elves and another of Humans at our gates in a trice.” It didn’t sound as humorous as he’d intended. It sounded bitter.

Balin didn’t even bother answering. He just cast Thorin a shaming look and sipped his brandy.

Thorin sank lower in his chair, toes curling. He was already feeling like he’d cooked a gorgeous meal for his beloved, only to find that the lamb he’d slaughtered was a beloved household pet. Now he felt as though the consensus was, he’d killed the pet out of jealousy. 

And… he might have.


	10. Bombur

Bombur stood out on the terraces, a bag of provisions in his arms, looking around at the trampled mess and shaking his head. Thorin had really stepped in it this time.

“He won’t come out,” Balin confided to him an hour ago, down in the kitchen. “He’s been just hiding in there like a mouse in its hole for two days now.”

“And Thorin lurking outside, peering in the windows like a hungry cat,” Bombur guessed, pausing in his bread dough manipulation.

“I hope not. That would be the worst thing he could do, and I told him so.” Balin said. “I hope he listens.”

They exchanged a wordless look of doubting concern about Thorin’s capacity for listening.

“But I was thinking, maybe you could drop by with some food, just in a neighborly sort of way?” Balin asked sympathetically, and thus Bombur stood now, armed with bread, ham, and cheese, a bit of tea and pie, a supply of butter, sugar, and cream, and some apples.

He knocked on the door and after a moment, Bilbo opened it, looking unkempt and testy. Some of his testiness fell away when he saw it was Bombur, and food.

“Ah. The cavalry has arrived,” Bilbo quipped wearily, and stood aside to let the rotund dwarf tiptoe into his home.

Bombur entered slowly, having never seen a Hobbit’s smial before. “Oh, I say,” he breathed, staring around himself with admiring eyes. “Oh, this is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said awkwardly, and then reached out for the bag. “And thank you! Here, let me…” he took the bag and Bombur stepped further in, as tentative as Bilbo himself had been at first. 

“Look at this little fireplace!” Bombur practically cooed, craning his neck to take in all the sights.

“I’ll give you the tour,” Bilbo said with a touch of bleak cynicism. “Here is the living room my father built for my mother, which Thorin then dismantled, ripped out of the ground, dragged across Middle Earth, and stuck in a cave.”

Bombur winced, and then looked around carefully. “Did they damage anything?” He asked in dread. Bilbo’s eyes, he noted, looked rather puffy as he also surveyed the room.

“Ah… no, actually. Well, the garden is destroyed, but the house, I have to admit, they put it back together perfectly. They’re very skilled, for grave-robbers.”

Bombur froze. “Your parents weren’t… buried under the house…. Were they??” His voice sank in horror.

“What? No, no…” Bilbo gave a rusty chuckle. “No, I’m sorry. That was a bit melodramatic, wasn’t it? Not to be taken literally. Just… just all my memories were… I can’t explain it.”

But Bombur nodded, eyes soft. “I think I understand.” He looked around. “What a cunning little lace thing…”

“That’s a doily.” Bilbo informed him sternly. “My aunts were all mad for doilies and would sit by the hour tatting away… well, come, let me show you the kitchen.”

A half hour later, they were sitting at the dining room table, picking at the pie, drinking tea, and Bilbo had to admit, Bombur’s visit had improved his mood a bit.

“This kitchen is as snug as a bug in a rug,” Bombur said approvingly, and Bilbo glanced around himself and gave a modest shrug. 

“Well, thank you, yes, I always did pretty well in here…”

“That stove… I have never seen anything so clever,” Bombur assured him.

Bilbo smiled and rose. “Let me just stoke up the fire—“ and went to the fireplace. Bombur watched with interest as Bilbo put some curiously flat, white sticks of wood into the fire.

“Do Hobbits not use regular logs?” he called.

Bilbo poked at the fire and then returned. “Yes, but… I’m using the remains of my picket fence for now.” He sat down and sipped his tea again. “I mean,” he added wryly, “can you see a little white picket fence on the side of this mountain?”

Bombur pictured it and his face crumpled in a cringe. “Oh yes. I see your point. It would be like… like…”

“Red lip paint on… Dwalin!” Bilbo suggested, and they shared a snicker.

“Or a dragon with a doily on its head,” Bombur said.

Bilbo gazed upon his friend with a true smile on his face, the first in days. “You know, you ah… you have made me feel better.”

Bombur gave his hand a squeeze. “What shall we do about the garden?”

Bilbo looked toward the windows where, outside, the pots of dirt still sat about in the trampled earth and the remains of his picket fence. “Till it under and give up?”

Bombur smiled and squeezed again. “No, surely not.”

Bilbo sighed. “No. I guess, come spring… I don’t know. Right now, I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to sit by the fire, drink tea, eat pies, and… burn my fence.”

Bombur shuddered, and then nodded. “Okay. Well, I must be going, but I hope you won’t mind if I stop by again sometime?” As if Bilbo were merely a neighbor in the neighborhood. It was curiously comforting, and Bilbo smiled again.

“I’d like that. Especially since you bring food.”

Bombur chuckled, and let Bilbo see him to the door. When it had closed behind him, he heard the lock snick into place and heaved a sigh, looking around at the chaotic remains on the terraces. Then, shaking his head, he went back into the mountain and down to his kitchens.


	11. Brooding

Thorin lay in his bed, torches flickering on the stone walls around him and glinting on the swords mounted over the hearth. His magnificent hair was spread out on his pillow, braids looking a bit ragged. This was his fourth night without his Hobbit. 

For once, he had heeded advice and left said Hobbit strictly alone, locked in his smial in the mountainside. Thorin wondered if Bilbo had discovered that his back door actually let him into the passageway, so he could come and go without going outside into the cold if he wanted to.

Had he noticed? Had he noticed that they’d carefully arranged his smial so that several windows actually did face outward? Not all of them, of course. The mountain wasn’t some little hill. But really, they’d done excellent work. Even to the plumbing and running water. It wasn’t just a mock up. It was a functioning home. Working fireplaces.

Thorin’s brooding gaze wandered over to Bilbo’s writing desk, where the green and gold book on Sindarin now sat untouched, with a few others. Maybe he should take Bilbo the book. That would be an innocent reason to come by, just delivering the book … that Thranduil had given him.

Thranduil. Ha. Thranduil willingly giving anyone anything—other than an ulcer—was epic, and who had warmed that freezing little Elven ice-chip of a heart? His Hobbit. HIS Hobbit. 

Thorin glared at the book, and then looked over at the fireplace. That would be a better place for the damned book.

He sighed and rolled over under the furs, gathering the pillows in his arms. At least his Hobbit was still in his mountain. Not far away. If Thorin grew truly desperate… there he was. Less than 100 paces away. At least there was that.

*** 

100 paces away, candlelight flickered on the warm golden woodwork, and the patchwork quilt, which still held the faint scent of breeze-dried cotton. Bilbo had spent the day going through his trunks, marveling at belongings he’d rather forgotten he had. Occasionally, he’d forget momentarily that he was in Erebor, and he’d feel the curious completeness that one gets in one’s own home. 

Then he’d glance out the window at the snow-covered rocks and the pots of black soil tilting in the trampled terraces, and his bench, tipped over and forlorn on the crumpled canvas, and remember, and sigh. Grimly.

He admitted to himself that he was surprised that Thorin had not come banging on his door since that first day. Bilbo had said, “Leave me alone,” and Thorin had done so, reluctantly. _Well, we’ll see how long he lasts,_ Bilbo thought broodingly, and returned to picking through his treasures. Old toys from childhood… some cameos of distant relatives from long ago… his father’s broken pipes, which he couldn’t bring himself to throw away… a bell without a clapper… Bilbo sorted and inventoried (mentally) until he was hungry enough to eat.

When evening came, he drew a bath and felt it wasn’t unpleasant to soak in his own tub.

Afterward, he had a bit of tea and toast by the fire as in days of old, and smoked a pipe, and thought that if it weren’t for the cold wind whistling outside in the night, he might almost be at home. Almost. But the air here was cool and dry, not humid and sweet as in the Shire. 

Bilbo leaned his head back on his chair and felt again the painless headache of displacement and sadness. He’d definitely lost something. All his possessions were here, but something was lost. Some freedom, some sense of ownership… in some ways, he was more homesick than he was before, because before, home was a real place, Bilbo simply wasn’t there.

But now, home was destroyed.

He struggled to understand his own feelings. All his possessions were here, and there was no one in the Shire he really longed to see. Oh, the folks there were fine, the Tooks and Brandywines and Gamgees and Bunces… he didn’t dislike any of them, but he didn’t particularly miss them either.

His garden, now that was a loss. The terraces here were eight times the size, but they were utilitarian and stark, whereas his garden had been tiny and lush. _Well, the climate is different,_ he mused, his pipe loose in his fingers.

So why was he so heartsick? Was he afraid that Thorin had trapped him, like an animal in an unnatural version of his own habitat, held there for tourists to come and gaze at? Maybe, a little.

Was it that Thorin had done this without consulting him? Definitely a big part.

Bilbo emptied his pipe and asked himself, If Thorin had said, _Why don’t I bring all your things here, why don’t we bring all of Bag End here…_ would Bilbo have agreed to it?

No. Nope. Sorry. No. 

But it was done now, wasn’t it? It was. And Bilbo was pretty heartsick about it. On that thought, he went to bed.


	12. Fili and Kili

For the next few days, Bilbo carefully rationed the food that Bombur had brought him, stubbornly refusing to re-enter the mountain for anything. Thorin brought his home here, why then Bilbo would live in it! _You’ll get your money’s worth,_ he vowed mentally in Thorin’s direction.

When supplies got low, he ventured out onto the cold terraces and dug through what was left, finding the last few carrots to supplement his shrinking stores. Happily, when Thorin told the workers to bring everything, they brought everything. So, in his larder, Bilbo sifted carefully through the flour, rice, beans, sugar, salt, and lard, vowing he’d live on scones, split peas, and mashed carrots if he had to.

Fortunately, however, Bombur made a huge pot of stew and sent Fili and Kili up to “visit” with the pot.

Bilbo opened the front door to find the two brothers wide-eyed with nervousness, shoulder to shoulder.

“Hello, Bilbo, we were just passing by,” Kili said, and then stopped as if he’d memorized the phrase only to realize that it was clearly nonsense.

“This is hot.” Fili said tightly, his blue eyes pained, and Bilbo looked down at the huge pot in his hands, that leaked tempting smells from under the clay lid.

“Oh my,” Bilbo said—

“And heavy—“ Fili added, his eyes getting wider.

“Yes, alright, DO come in,” Bilbo said, stepping aside with an air of resignation.

The brothers entered quickly and Fili set the pot on the table. Then the two looked around like alert cats.

The Hobbit regarded them with some amusement. “Would you like to look around?”

“Oh, no, we shouldn’t—“ Fili began most properly.

“Alright!” Kili shouted, and took off exploring in a trice, vanishing into the nearest spare bedroom. “Aaahh!! Fee, come smell this bed!!”

“What--?” Bilbo muttered, but Fili had already darted into the spare bedroom to join his brother, who was rolling on the bed, stopping occasionally to bury his face in the blankets and sniff.

“It smells like grass and flowers!” Kili said, and Fili flopped down and stared up at the curved ceiling.

“Oh, it does! And look up, look, look!”

Kili rolled onto his back. “Ooooo… look how the wood bends.”

Bilbo stood at the bedroom door, an unwilling smirk taking over his lips. “Never been in a Hobbit hole, I take it.”

Kili jumped up and went to the wardrobe. “No… Fee, smell the wood! Smell the wood!”

Baffled, Bilbo watched the brothers sniff and caress the wardrobe. “That’s uhm… that’s cedar. It keeps the moths away… you don’t know about cedar?”

“No. Do we? I don’t know. Do we?” Kili asked Fili, who shrugged and muttered, “and it smells kind of … nutty.”

“That’s just the oil I polish with—“ Bilbo assured them. He looked back at the pot of stew on the table. “Why don’t we have some stew?” He asked, partly just to lure them out of the bedroom, as watching young dwarfs open his wardrobe and sniff all the clothes inside reminded him rather too much of having large, uncontrollable pets.

They came out of the spare bedroom and took off in different directions, determined to see as much as they could before they were (inevitably) thrown out.

Bilbo shook his head and went to take three bowls down from the cabinet. 

“Look at the legs on the bathtub!!” Kili cried, and Fili emerged from Bilbo’s study—

“You have a lot of books!”

\--to inspect the bathroom. “Awwww….!!”

Bilbo ladled out the stew and waited for the smell to make his case for him. Soon he was joined at the table by two dwarfs eying the soup.

“Bombur said it was for you and we shouldn’t eat any,” Fili said reluctantly.

Bilbo handed them spoons. “Just a little taste,” he said placatingly, finding that he’d rather them stay for a while than go, if the sniffing part of their visit was over.

Urging young dwarfs to eat is an endeavor that rarely meets with failure. Soon the three of them were happily slurping down the meaty stew.

“Oh, this IS divine,” Bilbo admitted, sitting back and happily patting his tummy. It would go well with the quick-bread he was planning to make later.

The brothers finished their stew as well, and Fili started studying the spoon with the distracted yet casual air that Bilbo knew usually indicated him bolstering his nerve to discuss something.

“So, is it… are you… do you…”

Bilbo gave him a sharp look. “I suppose you have a message to deliver along with the stew.”

Now Fili was slowly twirling the spoon in his fingers. “Well, Uncle does want to say… that is… you know…”

“Let me guess, he’s very sorry and apologetic,” Bilbo said bitterly.

“No—“ Kili admitted without thinking, and Fili stopped twirling the spoon and stared at him fixedly.

“Of course he is.” Fili said immediately.

Bilbo looked between the two of them suspiciously.

“He’s very sorry that this didn’t make you happy,” Fili said with an air of stepping from stone to stone over hot, flowing lava.

“Is that so.” Bilbo said, lips pursed.

“Yes.” Fili said, and ventured further, carefully. “And he hopes… that you will soon…”

“Get over it.” Kili said brightly.

They both looked daggers at him. He had the nerve to look startled. “What??”

Bilbo stood up abruptly and gathered the empty bowls. “Right. Thank you so much for dropping by, and do tell Bombur that I am very appreciative of his splendid stew.”

Fili rose from the table, practically hissing at his brother.

“What? What???” Kili asked, and Fili grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged him from the table.

“Well, we really have to go now, but we hope to see you again soon,” Fili said rapidly, and Bilbo glowered at them from the worktop while they saw themselves out.

“What did I say? It’s the truth, right?” Kili’s voice came just before Fili shut the door quickly. Through the window Bilbo watched them make their way back to the entrance of the mountain. If hands could tell a story, Kili looked like he was carrying an invisible load of firewood in front of him, and Fili looked like he was shaking an invisible log over his head, and glaring up at it.

Bilbo found that smoldering anger made a refreshing change from aching sadness.


	13. Ori

In his weekly campaign to make sure Bilbo did not starve himself to death, Bombur next pressed Ori into service with a basket full of smoked bacon, some grapes purchased from Dale (by way of Rivendell, no doubt), blueberry pie, and coffee beans.

Bilbo opened the door to find Ori dressed in his very best, boots brushed, braids freshly done, and the basket clutched in both hands before him as if it would protect him should his host lash out in a sudden Hobbity rage.

“Hey, Ori,” Bilbo said affectionately, and welcomed him in warmly. 

“Hey. Bombur said if there is anything else you need, just tell him.”

“I’m fine, that’s very good of him… coffee and pie sounds like just the thing on a snowy evening, doesn’t it? Here, I’ll grind the beans and you can look around if you like.” Bilbo said, understanding by now that his smial was a source of absolute fascination with his dwarven friends.

“This is beautiful,” Ori clasped his hands together reverently. “So warm. So pretty… oh, what a nice chair. Oh, you have doilies! I’ve read about doilies.”

Bilbo chuckled to himself, wondering just exactly how starved for entertainment one must be before they’re driven to read about doilies.

“Feel free to sniff the wardrobe in the spare bedroom,” he called, and was rewarded by the sound of footsteps, followed by a long “OOOooooooo!!”

Still smiling, he wrapped the coffee grounds in the cheesecloth, tied it off, set the bundle in the bottom of the kettle, and then poured the hot water over it. Leaving it to brew, he went to find that Ori had made his way to the library and was gingerly touching the spines of the books with one careful finger.

“Oh,” he said, turning to Bilbo. “In the bottom of the basket is Thranduil’s book on Sindarin. Thor—I thought you might like it…?”

Bilbo’s smile turned a little sour, but he just nodded. “Thank you.”

“If—if there’s anything else you want that you… don’t want to go get… Th—Th—I’ve been told that I can…. go get it for you.” Ori stammered.

Bilbo was strongly tempted to announce that Thorin was clearly a coward who was afraid to face him. Then he remembered that he had told Thorin to stay away from him, and fumed that he was then probably not within his rights, then, to complain about the King’s newfound delicacy.

“You know, if you get a chance,” Bilbo said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t mind having my drawing pad and art supplies.” Let Thorin stew about that. _I’m taking my things out of your rooms, thank you very much!_

Ori nodded eagerly. “Okay!” Then he turned to the books again. “Fili said you had a lot of books. Are they all written in Common?”

“Yes—well, no actually, there are several in Sindarin that were my mother’s, and it was one of the reasons I started studying it,” Bilbo came forward to pull out a large purple book that was not only completely in elegant, mysterious Sindarin, but featured several artistic renditions of the towers of Rivendell. “In fact, this…” he tapped at the book, “this was why I was so excited when I went to Rivendell the first time. This tower, you should see it in real life,” Bilbo said, and Ori was in raptures.

“Let’s take it out and look at it over coffee and pie,” Bilbo said, remembering that he was host now. He hadn’t really been host much to the Company, here in Erebor. 

Together they hovered over the book, carefully turning the pages, making certain no blueberry pie got wasted on the edges of the paper. 

“Is that a bridge?” Ori breathed, peering down at a drawing that looked like a delicate cobweb over a ravine. 

“Yes, and there are no railings! Apparently gravity doesn’t bother Elves, but let me tell you, when I had to cross it I was practically crawling,” Bilbo said, and Ori gave a shiver of terrified delight.

“This coffee is wonderful,” Bilbo mentioned, sniffing his cup appreciatively.

“Yes, Bombur got in Dale, just a few weeks ago. It was the last trip before the snows started.”

Bilbo sank down a little, feeling a ripple of anger go through him again. “Yes, that was the trip I wasn’t allowed to make.”

“Hm?” Ori tipped his head.

“Thorin wouldn’t let me go because he was having this—“ Bilbo gestured about him in exasperation, “—done, and he didn’t want me to see it, so he told me it was too dangerous to go to Dale.”

“Oh.” Ori said in a small voice, and put down his coffee as if he suddenly felt guilty drinking it.

Bilbo felt bad for taking Ori’s pleasure in their visit away. It wasn’t Ori’s fault. “So I’m glad you brought it, or I’d never have had any,” He said with smile, and took another drink. “Let’s have some more!”

Ori brightened again, and Bilbo reflected that the pleasures of giving were indeed more satisfying than the burden of receiving. _Oh, Thorin,_ he thought. _If only you knew how to give without crushing._

Then he turned back with his smile in place. “I think there are drawings of Mirkwood in there too,” he said, and Ori turned back to the book, carefully turning the pages with respectful fingers.

Bilbo settled back in, and they lost themselves in the shared pleasure of discovery.

When Ori finally stood to take his leave, Bilbo rather impulsively gave him a hug. “I’m so glad you came. Be sure to come again!”

Ori blushed pink and gave a little shiver of delight. “I will,” he whispered happily. “Good Evening, Bilbo!”

Bilbo watched him trot away to the entrance to the mountain. When he turned back to regard the two empty plates and coffee cups by the large purple book, and the fire dancing in the fireplace, he found that, for the moment, there was no pain in his heart at all.

He had to look out the windows at the snowy twilight, and the rocks of the terrace, to stir it up again.


	14. Bofur

The next visitor to find their way to the smial on the mountain was Bofur, whom Bombur sent with another bag of goodies.

Bilbo opened the door, and Bofur entered with a gust of snow. 

“You know, there’s a side entrance in the passageway,” Bilbo said tip of his head as he closed the door against winter.

“Aye, but I wanted the full experience!” Bofur said stoutly, and brandished the bag in his arms. “Food, cake, and wine here. Let’s start at the end and work backwards, what do you say?”

Bilbo grinned, because Bofur could always make him grin. “I don’t see why not,” he said, and went to his cabinet for wine glasses.

“That’s a fine cabinet! Who made it? Dwarfs, I bet,” Bofur stated, laying his hat on the bench.

Bilbo returned and started picking goodies from the bag. “I’ll have you know it was crafted in Hobbiton by Hobbits. I don’t know _which_ Hobbits though—“

Bofur went to the cabinet and inspected the joints and hinges. “Well, I’ll be. Not half bad! Smooth. Birds-eye maple?”

“I think so,” Bilbo poured the wine, and they touched glasses and took a sip.

“Oh, the wine’s Elvish, by the way” Bofur said, licking his lips. “Bombur said he thought you’d like it.”

“It’s lovely, thank you,” Bilbo agreed. “So you said we should start with the cake?”

He served it up and they took their snack to the easy chairs by the fire, rather than sit primly at the table.

“How is life with Legolas?” Bilbo asked, after they had exhausted their small talk.

“Oh, sort of a boiling pot of unrequited love combined with bickering, archery, and horse grooming.” Bofur said easily.

Bilbo swallowed a mouthful of cake and peered at his friend.

“I think he’s a virgin,” Bofur nodded. “I really do. And committed to staying that way.”

“That’s … kind of terrible for you, though, isn’t it?” Bilbo asked wonderingly.

“Ah no, really, not so bad. I mean… I get to be around him all the time, and no one ELSE is getting him, so… I’m his steward, that’s what he calls me. It means I do whatever he says, he pays me a pittance, and I insult him for free.” Bofur grinned and took another bite of cake.

“Are you… happy?” Bilbo asked.

Bofur nodded, finishing his mouthful. “Well… I’m not unhappy. I’d wonder about him if he gave in to a grubby little tart like me, so, yeah, I think this is about as good as it’s going to get.”

“Well, there’s a phrase. As good as it’s going to get.” Bilbo said reflectively, looking down into his wine.

“So how about you. Have you seen Thorin?” Bofur asked boldly.

Bilbo looked back up coolly. “Who?” He asked pointedly.

Unabashed, Bofur grinned. “Thorin? Tall fellow, long hair? Has his foot in his mouth and his head up his arse? Don’t know how he gets around.”

Bilbo struggled to keep a straight face but a tiny smirk won out. He wagged a warning finger at Bofur. “No. No, you will not make me laugh about this.”

Bofur grew more serious. “So you had no idea that’s what he was up to?”

Bilbo put his empty plate aside and shook his head helplessly, glancing around at his abode. “It’s like he sucked the home out of the house and left me the shell.”

Bofur looked stricken. “Oh Mahal, that’s horrible!”

Bilbo relented. “It’s just—that was extreme, I’m sorry—it’s just…. Erebor fits in the Lonely Mountain, and Bag End fitted in the Shire. And it was my childhood home, and now, the workers say there’s just a crater there.”

“A crater. Oh, that’s awful. Thorin is an idiot.” Bofur said, and then cast an apprehensive look toward the windows. “Hope he’s not lurking around out there.”

Bilbo looked to the windows. “I don’t think he is.”

Bofur thought about the situation for a moment. “Didn’t you say that when you went home the first time on the eagle, your relatives were divvying up your things?”

Bilbo gave a huff of laughter. “Oh yes. Yes, I’d forgotten about that… I never did get back my grandmother’s blue willow candy bowl,” he mused.

“Well,” Bofur said philosophically, “You’ll never have to worry about _that_ again.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Bilbo agreed, albeit without much enthusiasm. “They can’t steal my things if Thorin stole them first.”

They gave each other wincing smiles at the thought, and then Bofur went and got the bottle of wine from the table and brought it back to the fireside. “Let’s finish this off, shall we?”

They were just finishing that bottle when a tapping at one of the windows by the door drew their attention, and a shadow flitted across the glass.

“By my belt, Thorin IS out there!” Bofur said, rising to his feet with a scowl.

“No,” Bilbo put his glass down and passed him. “No, I think that tapping is a crow. Oh yes, look,” he pointed to a distinctly ornithological silhouette moving restlessly against the window.

Bilbo opened the door, and a crow flew in and landed on Bofur’s hat.

“Hey. You shit on that hat and I will have crow pie,” Bofur said seriously.

“Chiprock,” Bilbo identified him, and moved cautiously to take the scroll from its scaly leg, but the bird danced about and evaded him.

“What does it want?” Bofur asked.

“Cake, maybe,” Bilbo ventured, and offered the crow a bit of cake, which was accepted.

“Waste of good cake,” was the dwarf’s opinion, but Bilbo was now unrolling and reading the little scroll, his eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s from Elrond. He says his scouts have picked up evidence of an army headed in our general direction, possibly from Moria. An army of Orcs,” Bilbo said, turning to Bofur. He looked a little pale. Holding out the scroll, he said, “You’d better take this to Thorin.”

Bofur hesitated. “Maybe you should take it to him.”

Bilbo shook his head in silent but absolute refusal, eyes unwavering. Bofur reached out and accepted the little scroll. 

“Alright. Okay. Here we go then. Give me my hat, you little shit—OW!”

Bilbo opened the door again. Chiprock relinquished the hat and flew off into the snowy landscape. Bofur smoothed his pecked hand, then plopped the hat on his head. He turned and made his customary salute at the door. But he looked a bit less carefree than usual.


	15. War Council

In the conference room behind the throne room, they gathered to consult: Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili, Tauriel, Legolas, and Bard. 

Fili spoke first, “Bilbo should be here.”

Tauriel said softly, “I asked this morning. He says he has nothing to contribute.”

“We don’t need a Hobbit’s opinion on how to protect our mountain,” that was Dwalin, of course. Thorin didn’t approve of the remark, but as King, he must think like a king, not like a spurned and sulking lover. Dwalin was within his rights to opine.

“Why would Orcs march in winter?” Kili asked. “It’s a miserable time to be out looking for trouble.”

“They’re hungry,” Balin guessed. “Our alliance has been successful, and prey for hunting has grown scarce.”

“Can we tell who their target is?” Thorin asked.

“Not yet,” Legolas replied. “My father’s communications with Elrond simply indicate an army of at least a hundred heading in the general direction of Mirkwood, Dale, and Erebor. Knowing what we know of Orcs, however… they rarely venture into the forest. Not since they met such defeat when your company first passed through, nearly three years ago.”

“Dale is virtually unprotected,” Bard worried quietly.

“And there is still a fair amount of … gold here in Erebor,” Fili said, with a reflexive glance at his uncle. He had never quite overcome his unease when mentioning the G-word.

“So what are they after, meat or gold?” Dwalin asked rhetorically.

Bard shot him a glance, not liking to be referred to as “meat.”

“Which is easiest?” Came a voice from the vaulted doorway, and they turned to see Bilbo slip through and approach, tugging at the edges of his green velvet jacket, pulling it close against the chill.

Most of the group inhaled in pleased surprise, but decided quickly, via shared glances and rigid postures, to act as though his joining the Council was merely a matter of course. It did not escape their notice that Bilbo made eye contact only with Bard and Legolas.

“Orcs who are hungry will take the easiest path: that’s Dale. It’s easier to kill and eat than to kill, gather gold, buy, and then eat,” Bilbo finished briskly.

“And Dale is more difficult to defend,” Tauriel added.

“Should we… “ Kili kept an eye on his uncle as he carefully felt his way, “should we… evacuate the humans into the mountain?”

Thorin did not react badly and Bard was inhaling to thank the dwarfs for the offer, when Bilbo spoke again. “If you do, the Orcs will just occupy Dale and eat all your livestock, horses, food, everything. Getting it back will be like… well, they still control Moria, don’t they?”

“We could take it back,” Dwalin growled, darting the Hobbit a resentful look.

“Yes,” Fili said. “If Dale is hard to protect against outsiders, once we _are_ the attacking outsiders, it will be no more easy for the Orcs to defend against us… right?”

“You are forgetting,” Thorin said in a gravelly hush, as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice would send the Hobbit scurrying back into retreat. “The difference between the normal occupants of a city—civilians, half of whom are women and children—and an army. If we do bring the humans here, we should bring their livestock and horses too… anything edible…”

“Then we’ve effectively put the meat and the gold all in one place.” Balin warned.

“Erebor has far fewer entrances than any other stronghold, including Moria,” Dwalin asserted. 

“Well…” Bilbo paused, “it has one nice, new, bright green one that you can see from the path to Dale,” he said pointedly, finally darting a glance at Thorin. 

The Elves and Bard looked as if this was merely an irritable remark, but the dwarfs all grew wide-eyed and still.

“He’s right,” Kili said after a tense moment. “The few other entrances we have besides the front gate are camouflaged. You could stare at the mountain all day and not see them. But that door—“ 

“Might as well paint it red,” Bilbo agreed with mock cheerfulness, but his lips were thin and his eyes did not settle on anyone now.

Thorin rested his elbow on the table and his face in his hand. Yes, he had truly made a mistake this time. On every level.

“Alright, look, we have time,” Fili said. “This army is still days away, yes?”

Legolas nodded. “Yes. To the best of our knowledge.”

“Let’s just pile rocks in front of that door. They won’t see it if they aren’t looking for it.”

“Aye, that might be best,” Balin said, toying with the beads in his beard.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Wait,” Tauriel told them. “What if we wanted to ambush the Orcs in an easily controlled area? There are many places to hide out on the mountainside. And if they are focused on that door, believing it to be an easy entrance…”

“They’d sent at least a faction to charge up the mountain, and we could cut them down as they come.” Fili suggested hopefully. “It would draw them away from Dale.”

“How can we ensure they are drawn to it?” Bard asked doubtfully.

There was a long pause.

“Well… that could be easy,” Bilbo said calmly. “I still have my red jacket. I could lead them like a fox leads hunting dogs. I’ll do my special Orc-attracting Hobbit dance,” he added lightly.

“No!” Thorin said automatically.

Everyone looked at him for a moment, and then, clearly dismissing his objection, turned back to Bilbo.

“Is there really an Orc-attracting Hobbit dance?” Kili asked wonderingly.

“Oh yes.” Bilbo answered with a trace of a smile. “It’s called _Oh dear, I seem to have dropped my handkerchief down between the rocks, I am completely unaware of your presence, and look how nice and juicy my backside is._ They’ll be up the side of the mountain, mouths watering, in a trice, I assure you.”

The dwarfs all scowled. The elves both smiled. Bard looked embarrassed. But Bilbo was curiously at ease. Orcs frightened him, of course, but not the way they frightened the others. To others, they were the creatures of nightmares, otherworldly and mysterious. To Bilbo, they were all too familiar. Violent and dangerous, ugly and brutal, but very much lacking in mystery. They were oppressors, and he bore them a grudge, frankly.


	16. Preparing for War

The next few days were busy. Crows were crossing Middle Earth in such numbers they nearly collided in mid-air a few times. Elrond’s scouts were tracking the Orc contingent that was now clearly headed for either Erebor or Dale. Legolas was right to say they had no interest in another face-off with elves. Mirkwood was dense and difficult to negotiate for strangers. Moreover, Wood-elves were fierce fighters, and probably tasted like jerky anyway. 

But Dale sat like a ripe tomato on the plains at the foot of Erebor, and Orcs had little concept that Lake-men, Wood-elves, and Mountain-dwarfs were actually on such terms as to actively aid one another.

Such terms existed, however, and the Dwarfs of Erebor were speedily making arrangements for the lodging of the women and children of Dale, while the Mirkwood Elves had volunteered a contingent of archers.

The plan was that the Orcs would head for Dale, which would appear deserted. Half-way there, something would draw their attention up the mountainside to the highly visible, new, unguarded entrance into Erebor, and from there they could be surrounded on all sides: men from Dale to their left, Elven archers lying in ambush up the mountain to their right, and the Dwarven army coming around both sides of the mountain.

Thorin very much wanted to talk to Bilbo about the absolute non-necessity of him acting as bait to draw up the Orcs, and the much more preferable arrangement of Bilbo returning to the royal chambers and locking himself in until the battle was over. Gaining an audience with his estranged consort, however, was proving difficult.

“No, no, laddie, don’t go to his little smial,” Balin urged, seeing Thorin headed through the torch-lit passageway in that direction with an unmistakable look of stubborn, obsessive resolve on his harsh features.

Thorin turned on him with a frustrated whirl that made his blue velvet cape flare out around him. “Why should I not? This is war.” He bit out.

“That is his home, and unless you want to make it clear that you have taken ownership of his home from him, you respect his privacy and stay out of there,” Balin said bluntly. He was perilously close to putting a finger under the king’s nose again.

Thorin swayed in a wavering glower, his eyes going longingly toward the rune-carved doors that opened upon the terraces.

“I will go, or Fili, or Kili, or Ori, or… nearly anyone except you, Thorin. What is it you want to say to him?” Balin asked with as much patience as he could muster.

“Why must he be the bait to lure the Orcs??” Thorin said, not for the first time.

“He’s a Hobbit, and that’s clearly a Hobbit door in the side of the mountain. It only makes sense,” Balin sighed. “And their guard will be down when they come across a little lone Hobbit defenseless in the wild.”

Thorin shuddered at the image, eyes growing wide and despairing.

“But!” Balin added quickly, “But he will _not be_ alone and defenseless. There will be hidden warriors mere steps away from him. Legolas and his archers will be there, Bofur will be there, even the Lir brothers will be there, and you know what hard-handed lads they are.”

Thorin blinked. “Who?”

Balin sighed, “The Lir brothers! They’re two of the dwarfs who reconstructed Bilbo’s house for you! They say now they didn’t drag that smial all the way across Middle Earth to see Orcs tear it apart… Bilbo will not be alone.”

Behind Balin came the distinctive patter of Ori’s eager boots. He came around the corner of the passageway, hands at a dither. “Bilbo’s not there anyway,” he said breathlessly as he approached. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening in, but Bilbo’s not there. Guess where Bilbo is?” The young dwarf had a look of rather excited wonder in his tone.

In dread, Thorin stared at him. “I do not wish to guess. Tell me,” his voice was soft thunder.

Ori blanched. “Oh. Of course. Well—he’s at the armory! He wants his mithral shirt and a weapon. He wants to fight! He says he owes the Orcs from way back, and he intends to take at least one of them out for Nolli.”

“Who is Nolli?” Thorin was growing agitated.

Ori looked up at him in surprise. “You know, the dwarf who… she was a slave to Orcs when Bilbo was… they killed her… he spoke of it…”

Thorin abandoned his intended destination on the terraces and swept past them both, heading for the armory.

Balin watched him go, shaking his head. “Like a blunt axe,” he muttered.

Ori played with his own fingers for a moment and then turned to the elder. “Is it true he brought Bilbo’s house from the Shire to here without telling Bilbo?”

Balin hedged. “Does that sound like something Thorin would do?”

“Yes,” Ori said immediately.

“Well, there you go.” Balin said wearily. “Come, why don’t you help me sort the Dale refugees into spare bedrooms for the siege.”

In the noisy armory, Fili and Kili were fitting Dwarfs and Humans with weaponry and what armor they had that would fit. (Elves brought their own, of course, and rather sniffed at the heavy, brutal weapons of the Dwarfs.)

Thorin appeared in their midst, his rippling hair smoothly back over his shoulders, kingly and composed, nodding at greetings, clapping trusted warriors on the back… but his eyes were moving constantly in search of a curly head around shoulder level.

“He’s been and gone, uncle,” Fili said, noting the classic stalking behavior. “We found him a blade that he could handle—“

“More of a letter opener, ha ha—“ Kili chortled, but swallowed it when Thorin’s head swiveled around at him.

“Where did he go?” The King demanded.

“The kitchens—“ Fili said, at the same time Kili said, “The library—“ 

They exchanged guilty looks as Thorin glared at them and left. He searched for the rest of the afternoon, but wherever he went, Bilbo had just left. Finally he encountered Dwalin, who had demands for his time, and Thorin was forced to give up the hunt.


	17. Assembly

Now, they waited. It was evening. All the refugees were settled. The warriors were stationed. It was time to close Erebor.

King Thorin called an assembly of all Dwarfs and Humans residing in the mountain, and the Elven archers stationed for the ambush. The vast hall of the throne room was filled to standing room only with attentive listeners as the heavy doors to Erebor creaked shut with an echoing ring of steel.

“Citizens and guests,” Thorin stood before his throne, dressed in black armor, the silver streaks in his hair gleaming white under the softly glowing Arkenstone. The torches on the massive support pillars and wide, solid stone landings were burning, and their glow lit up the faces that turned to him. His deep voice echoed through the cavernous hall, “We are united in determination to crush this enemy to our peace!”

There was an answering cry from the assembled citizens, the Human women’s voices rising high-pitched but fierce over the deeper roar of men and dwarfs. The Elves merely lifted their heads in attentive commiseration, their eyes flashing in the shadows.

“From this moment on, the battlements and all outdoor viewing areas are off-limits except for those warriors stationed there. When the Orcs arrive, it should look as if we are sealed in for the winter, and unaware of their presence. Little do they know—“ Thorin gave a dark smirk as his gaze swept his audience, “—that we are lying in wait for them. They think they are the hunters, but they will find that they are the hunted!”

Bilbo stood on the overlook near the long dining table, hands on the railing, looking down at the crowd. He remembered standing just here when King Dain rolled out the tapestry for Thorin’s approval. Couldn’t even see the tapestry now, the hall was so full. And he had to admit, Thorin could give a stirring speech when he wanted to bolster failing nerves.

Bilbo sighed, trying to see Thorin merely as a king, not as the lover whose possessive arrogance regularly encroached upon his Hobbit’s peace of mind.

“Remember that Orcs, however terrifying they may look, are only flesh and blood… and very little brains!” Thorin boomed, pausing for the answering cheer, and continuing. “They have no culture! They have no allies! They have no camaraderie. They do not watch over one another, they do not protect one another. When they fall, they fall alone. They live side by side… but they die alone.”

Silence had fallen on the hall now, everyone was listening attentively to the striking Dwarf King who stood before them, his intensity shining out of his eyes.

“We… are not that way. We are together, strong in our mutual support, strong in our dedication to our families, our friends, our allies, and our homes! Our spirit makes each of us a network of strength against their desperate and lonely violence! We will prevail!”

Bilbo nodded unconsciously, as many of Thorin’s listeners were doing. His husky voice thundered through the kingdom.

“And when we have wiped away their army, any stragglers who flee back to their filthy holes in the Misty Mountains will carry with them the message: Do not challenge the inhabitants of Rhovanion! From the Iron Hills to Mirkwood, from Erebor to Dale, they will crush all predators, and secure a lasting peace, be it built on Orc skulls and Dragon’s bones!!”

The cheers ricocheted off the gray-blue stone, and Bilbo felt a bit of a shiver down his spine. He rarely got to see this side of Thorin, and he felt a stir of admiration. It would indeed have been a pity for all this energy and determination to have spent itself forging and polishing metal in the Blue Mountains. Thorin was meant to be a king, with all the positive and negative attributes that entailed.

Just as Bilbo was preparing to retreat back up to the private passageways of the royal suites, and through the back door to his smial, Thorin looked up and met his eyes. No doubt the red jacket Bilbo had donned in readiness had caught his attention. The Hobbit lifted his hand in a brief, non-committal wave of acknowledgement. This was no time for his resentment to dampen the King’s confidence. Thorin lifted his chin in pleased return, and Bilbo stepped back and returned to his smial. 

Bilbo’s retreat wasn’t just him sulking in solitude, however; he was now the main portal through which communications moved. Though the Orc army was not yet past Mirkwood, spies might have come ahead, and the Council had determined, just as Thorin said, that the city of Dale and the mountain of Erebor should appear to be wrapped in unsuspecting hibernation. No one was on the path or plains. All communications—between the warriors who remained in Dale, the fighters stationed within Erebor, the contingent backup in Mirkwood, and the intelligence coming out of Rivendell—traveled via crow-mail. And all crows now understood that the dried fruit and goodies were to be found behind the curious round windows and door that had appeared behind the terraces on the Lonely Mountain. 

Thus all communications now passed via Bilbo. Messages came to him from the Council via his back door in the passageway, and went out on a crow leg from behind the round green door. No one stood on the viewing rock, or walked about the terraces in the sunshine, or appeared too visibly on the battlements. They were on lockdown, and Bilbo’s little smial was now of paramount importance.


	18. Zilur

Bilbo made himself a pot of tea with steely calm, and sat down by the fireplace with a view to the front windows. Bombur had brought him a whole bag of crow treats, and it waited by the front door. The lights in the smial were dimmed, so as not to be easily seen from across the plains when he opened the front door. He’d rolled up the entryway rug and stored it away in a spare bedroom. Most crows didn’t poop on the floor, but there was one whose actual nickname was Pooper, and, well… Ruffles was also not above a liquid protest if anything displeased him.

He’d no sooner seated himself when a knock came at the back door. Bilbo sighed.

“That had better not be Thorin,” he muttered to himself, as he did every time someone knocked. It was never Thorin, at least not so far, and each time he felt the simultaneous relief and a touch of disappointment. Now that he was no longer dizzy with shock, he had some pretty nasty remarks stored up and ready to sling at the King Under the Mountain. Just his luck that Thorin had finally wised up and decided to stay under the mountain.

“Zilur of Belegost, at your service!” The black-bearded dwarf made a low bow and then brandished a parcel with a grin. “Bombur said cookies might get me in.”

“Ah, yes, you… you…” Bilbo took the cookies and narrowed his eyes at the fellow, trying to place him. “You are one of those who—“ he tried to find a polite way to say: _moved my home out of its rightful place and put it here._

“Yep, I was part of the moving team. Now I’m part of the security team! Valur will be coming too, in a bit. It’s Valur, not Valor, so don’t say it wrong or he’ll get upset.” Zilur’s beard was long and rather thin, braided with black beads that blended right in with the hair.

“Valur, not Valor?” Bilbo repeated. They sounded exactly alike the way Zilur said them.

“Right! So! If I may?”

“Oh, of course,” Bilbo stepped back politely. “Please do. Um. Would you like some tea? It’s going to be a long night. We’ll have to drink it in there…. Must keep an eye on the front door.”

“Oh aye. Say, let me tell you,” Zilur said, glancing about the smial with the proprietary air that construction workers tend to get in homes they’ve constructed themselves. “This is the snuggest, finest little place I’ve ever worked on. I had no idea Hobbits had such sophisticated abodes.”

Bilbo poured the fellow his tea while Zilur stepped around, caressing the occasional doorframe and windowsill appreciatively.

“No?” He said, rather amused at the bow-legged stance with which Zilur planted himself in front of the picture window.

“No idea. We thought you just dug a hole in the ground and laid planks. No idea about the craftsmanship. And valuable! When we took this window out,” he pointed with both hands, “let me tell you, I lived and died a thousand deaths, and Valur got white hairs overnight. Oh, thank ye.” He took the tea with a pleased air.

Bilbo gazed at his round picture window with the many panes. “My father loved this window,” he mused quietly.

“I bet he did. We wrapped it in blankets and Valur slept with it in the wagon at night. Terrified we’d meet with thieves outside Bree. Oh, and let me show you something else,” Zilur took a swig of his tea and trotted briskly into the spare bedroom. 

Curious, Bilbo followed him, sparing a glance at the front windows for crows. None at the moment.

“These floorboards are the originals, but the frame underneath had to be replaced.” Zilur told him. “Termites. A couple more years and you’d have fallen through the floor.” He paused. “You wouldn’t have fallen far, but just so you know.”

“Really?!” Bilbo stared at the floor in consternation. “You know… I did think last time I was home that the floor wasn’t as solid as it should be in here, but I just thought—“

“Wear and tear, I know. But no. Ah, also we had to replace some of the plumbing under the tub. And up there, can you see that faint crack? We plastered over it, but I just wanted you to know, we didn’t do that, it was there. I mean, when we removed it from under the sod it got a little worse, because you had some water damage—“

“Oh yes, I heard about the rains of about five years ago—“ Bilbo realized.

“There you go, so I just wanted you to know. But mostly I wanted to say, it was an amazing experience putting this little showpiece back together. We blew up a lot of rock to fit this in, let me tell you…”

Bilbo listened as Zilur continued, head tilted slightly, unaware of the smile growing on his face. Hearing the worker’s view of this, not tinged by any awareness that to Bilbo, this removal was a sacrilege and a trauma, was… interesting. Rather nice, at least, to hear the obvious appreciation for the quality of the construction. Rather nice, he supposed, to know that the termite problem was caught before he ever had to deal with it. Probably a good thing about the plumbing. Suddenly, he was just a homeowner listening to the expert update him on the improvements. He even found himself nodding along and turning his head to follow the pointing finger as Zilur explained how they fitted in the chimneys without dislodging too much rock.

At length, they were interrupted by a flutter against his window. 

“Oh, here we go,” Bilbo set down his tea and went to the door, opening it to allow Bluebell (as he called her) to enter with another message from… “Looks like Thranduil’s hand,” he said, and unrolled it. “Yes… okay, they have visual confirmation of the Orc army, and he’s also notified the Dale watch tower. I’ll just send her back with a bead, that’s what we do to let them know we got the message. That way if she’s intercepted by an enemy spy, they won’t get any actual information from our end,” Bilbo explained.

When Bluebell was fed, fitted with a bead, and back out the door, Bilbo turned with the tiny scroll in his fingers.

“Take this to King Thorin, his rooms are just there, and if he isn’t there he’s down in the Council office… it’s kind of the War Room—“

“Got it,” Zilur said cheerfully. “When I get back, though, we need to get into those cookies. Keep our strength up!”

Bilbo grinned. “Right.”

“And I’ll tell you about the incident with your neighbors when we took up the garden.”

Bilbo winced. “I can just imagine.”

“Be right back!” Zilur was out the back door, and Bilbo stood alone in the smial, looking about himself thoughtfully. It seemed like his heart hurt… a little less just now.


	19. Waiting

Thorin sat in the Council office turned War Room, down inside the mountain. The Council lacked only Bard, who was back in Dale, and Bilbo, whose smial had become their secret alliance liaison/correspondence center. It was late, but no one except the Dale refugees was going to bed. They may doze off in their chairs or at their stations in full armor, but the messages were coming hourly now, and their plan might have to be initiated with very little notice.

“If they attack at night, it’s not going to work,” Kili said in the silence. Everyone gave him the look one gets when they state the obvious.

“Last update had them still several hours march away.” Fili said quietly.

“Have we heard any more from Rivendell?” Legolas asked. 

“Their last message was yesterday, to let us know that the Orcs had moved beyond their spies’ territory.” Thorin stated, drumming his fingers.

When Zilur brought the next scroll, Thorin handed him something to take back to Bilbo, hoping he didn’t open it himself. It looked like a message for Bilbo to send to Dale or Mirkwood, but it wasn’t. It was a personal message.

_~Bilbo, please do not attempt to fight. If you must use yourself as bait, please retreat through the smial and into the mountain as soon as you can.~_

It was all he dared to write.

A short time later, it was Valur who relayed the next messages, and Thorin opened the first scroll, reading it, and then glancing up at the assembled company.

“Thranduil reports campfires on the edge of Mirkwood.”

“That’s closer than we expected—“ Kili said immediately.

“Suggests they’re stopping for the night, though.” Balin pointed out. “That’s good.”

Thorin opened the second scroll and read silently. It was from Bilbo. 

_~If you didn’t want me fighting to protect my home, you shouldn’t have moved it here.~_

“Confirmation from Dale.” Thorin lied, and held it crumpled in his hand until he could surreptitiously tuck it away somewhere on his person. He sighed. “It’s going to be a long night. I wonder what else Bombur has in the kitchen.” He made as if to rise, but was immediately circumvented.

“I’ll go,” Balin said, and Dwalin rose with him. “You’re the king! You have to stay where the messengers can find you!”

Thorin sank back with a dissatisfied grimace. Yes, it was going to be a long night.

He looked over at Tauriel, who had curled in her chair like a cat and seemed able to doze lightly without discomfort, her weapons within easy reach. Legolas was also watching her, but averted his gaze when Thorin turned his way. Silence reigned. 

“As soon as we hear they have broken camp, we need to get everyone in place,” Thorin said quietly to his nephews. 

Fili nodded and rose from his chair. “I’m just going to stretch out over there,” he pointed to a dark corner, and Kili leaned forward to rest his chin on his folded arms. 

“I want a Warg pelt,” he said to no one in particular.

“They stink,” Legolas said from his own corner.

“Oh,” Kili yawned and closed his eyes, burrowing down into his sleeves.

Thorin sank back into his chair and wondered what Bilbo was thinking, up in his smial, crows coming and going, messengers trotting back and forth as the moon made its way across the cold winter sky.


	20. Dawn

Bilbo awoke in his easy chair to see the cold light of dawn coming in his small, round windows. In one window fluttered a familiar silhouette. He got up quietly, wiping the sleep from his eyes and looking around to see where Valur and Zilur had ended up. On the rug by the fire, alright. 

Stepping to the door, he cracked it open with as little noise as he could, and was pleased that no rush of wind or snow accompanied the crow—oh, two crows—oh, no three crows, well. Once they were all fluttering and squawking in his entryway, however, there was no point trying to be quiet. Behind him, two grumpy dwarfs were pulling themselves into sitting positions with doughty, throat-clearing _harrumps._

“Oh I hope there’s coffee,” one grumbled.

Bilbo was busy dishing out handfuls of treats and plucking scrolls from scaly legs. He was getting quite good at doing it without getting pecked, or triggering a splat on his floor.

“Help yourself in the kitchen,” he recommended, unrolling the first scroll. “Oh stars, the Orcs are breaking camp,” he added, and set the scroll on the nearby bench to open the second scroll. “Yep, they can see it from Dale as well…” The third scroll was yet another warning.

Bilbo stepped around to the two sleepy dwarfs quaffing cold coffee in his kitchen. “You’ll have to run these down quickly; it looks like it’s coming down to the moment of truth. I’ll wait and see if any messages need to come back,” he added, handing the scrolls over.

A moment later he was alone in his smial. “Well,” he said to himself. “Here we go,” and closed the front door again. He had three things he wanted to do before facing the oncoming Orcs: wash his face, comb his feet and curls, and have a nice breakfast.

Down below, the news brought Erebor to full wakefulness. There were armies to put in place, and they didn’t want to use the massive front gates, but rather stream quietly out via well-hidden exits. There were archers to position. There were barricades to fortify. There were messages to send out, mostly to Dale at this point. Any message to Mirkwood now would likely be merely: HELP!

Dwalin was the only one lingering as if hesitant to go to his assigned post. “I have always fought at your side,” he growled to his King.

“I know, but I would feel better if I knew Bilbo was protected. It would be a sacred trust to me, to know you were there. The only thing that would give me more comfort is if I could be there myself.” Thorin said, tightening the straps that secured his battle-axe.

“Bodyguard to a Hobbit,” Dwalin grimaced. “I think I deserve better.” It was the boldest complaint he had made thus far.

Thorin looked at him, rather taken aback. “What?”

“I followed you when most turned their back.” Dwalin stated, locking eyes with Thorin. “I came with you to face the dragon. I fought Orcs, goblins, trolls…”

Thorin nodded. “Yes.” He acknowledged seriously. “You did. But when I was disgraced and exiled again to the Blue Mountains, do you know who stood by me then? When I was not king? When most thought I was mad? Bilbo did.”

Dwalin drew back from him, eyes wide. “I see.”

“When I was no one. When I was nothing… he was there.” Thorin leaned in. “You have been a stalwart friend all my life. But even you did not want to know me then.”

“That is not fair! I stayed away because I thought you would not want witnesses to your shame.” Dwalin defended himself, affronted.

Thorin nodded. “You understand pride. He understands loneliness. You are both very important to me. I want you both in my life. Well you help me accomplish that?”

Dwalin’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Very well,” he muttered, and turned and crossed the hall, moving amongst the milling warriors heading for their own assignments. Thorin watched him go, hoping he did indeed understand. Then he turned his face to the battlements, where Fili would be stationed as a look-out and command post. One last consultation with his nephew, and he would join the warriors streaming around the back of the mountain.


	21. Legendary Orc-Attracting Hobbit Dance

The broken towers of Dale were, if nothing else, excellent places for Men to hide while they watched the approach of the Orc Army. They marched tightly clustered, with tall black spears. The rhythmic crunch of their steps was more imagined than heard at first, as they came across the snow-touched plains. Where the ground was bare, their feet picked up mud, and where snow still remained, they trampled it brown and flat. There was no indication that the Orcs had noticed or understood the significance of the steady stream of crows flying back and forth between the towers of Dale, and one particular spot on the side of the Lonely Mountain.

Bilbo huddled behind a large rock, thankful that the morning was still and dry, with the sun shining down. The first snows of winter had come, but they were not heavy, and some had melted. He knew from experience that this was not yet the fullness of winter on the plains. This was winter’s opening salvo, and the Orcs must have decided to make their move before the true force of it was unleashed.

The Hobbit glanced around, his eyes marking again which rock hid Legolas, and the nearby one that hid Bofur. He noted the boulder that concealed three more archers. He glanced down at the crevice in which crouched Dwalin, who would not even look at him. Bilbo shook his head, wondering why Thorin insisted on rubbing Dwalin’s nose in their relationship. Then he sighed and looked up toward his smial, inside of which waited Zilur and Valur. Finally, far above his smial were at least a dozen more archers, waiting to rain down death if Bilbo was able to lure the Orcs high enough.

Facing front, Bilbo fancied that at last he could hear the crunch of Orc feet, and the faint bellows of their war cries. It was finally time to put on his little show, he decided, and tugged at the edges of the bright red jacket. He tossed a pebble at Dwalin to warn him (the dwarf gave an irritable shrug of acknowledgement.)

Rising up from behind his rock, Bilbo hopped up atop it and began making his way down the mountain, keeping his eyes down, searching about as if hunting for something small, and acting utterly oblivious to the oncoming battalion that was even now coming upon the path to Dale.

Pattering nimbly about on his large, Hobbity feet, Bilbo peeked from the corner of his eyes, noting the size of the army. Not huge. Not their full contingent. This was… larger than a hunting party, certainly, but not the sort of numbers they would muster if they expected to encounter all-out war with Dwarfs and Elves. This was a single battalion, confident that it was descending upon a human city full of mostly civilians who were still rebuilding a damaged and fragile infrastructure. Vulnerable and without allies, easily slaughtered humans was what the Orcs were expecting to find.

Growing bolder, Bilbo hopped down the mountain a bit further than he’d originally intended to. By the sudden upsurge in hoarse shouts and cries, he knew he had been spotted. Well, the red jacket helped. 

Hopping and bobbing about on the rocks, Bilbo enacted a frantic search, turning his back and squatting, and then jumping up again and running a few steps more and dancing about fretfully. 

Finally, the roar of the Orc army could no longer be believably ignored, and Bilbo felt free to turn and gaze down upon them openly. He threw up his hands as if in fright, and turned away. Jumping nimbly from rock to rock, he began leading them up toward his smial. Teasingly, he disappeared behind a rock only to pop out again on the other side and do his frantic little dance again.

Their leader, the only one on a Warg, pointed toward Bilbo, roaring what the Hobbit remembered as some variant of “Fetch!” Immediately, three Orcs broke away from the front of the formation and began climbing up after Bilbo. 

The Hobbit darted about from rock to rock a few more times and then jumped up on rather a high, jutting boulder to get a better look at the leader below. Squinting, he studied the scar-like black slash about its head, the spiky black armor on its shoulders.

“That’s… that’s Bolg,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be. Still alive, is he?”

Bilbo remembered Bolg very well, and not fondly. The three Orcs in pursuit were not making good time, he could see. Not excellent climbers.

This was the first time Bilbo had seen Orcs since they sold him to Smaug, other than the brief encounter when they chased him on the way to Rivendell, and even then he’d spent most of the experience staring into the mane of his frantically galloping pony. But to stand on a rock and peer down from a relatively safe distance was a different experience, and Bilbo was suddenly more angry than uneasy. 

It was not part of the plan, but suddenly Bilbo felt as though he was owed a bit of sport. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he drew in his breath and then shouted down the mountainside, “BOOOOLLLG!!” 

The Orc’s startle was dramatic. The creature pulled up on the reins, turned its ugly head, and peered up at him, as did the entire battalion. Bilbo stared down at him coolly and then, purely on impulse, turned, dropped his short trousers, hiked up his mithral shirt and red jacket, and gave the entire Orc Army a good long wag with his pale, round… succulent naked buttocks. The roar from behind him was very satisfying.

Before him, he saw the top of Dwalin’s bald head peek up from his crevice not far away, and the furious dwarf made cutting motions with his hand across his throat, which meant either “Stop that now!” or “I’m going to kill you myself.” Or possibly both.

Grinning, Bilbo hiked his trousers back up, fastened them quickly, and turned to stare down at Bolg again. He was a bit startled to see that the three pursuing Orcs were just a touch closer than he’d expected them to be, possibly stirred to greater effort by those wagging cheeks like fruit above their heads. But it was Bolg who let out a raging howl, “SNAAAGAAAA!” and hurled his spear directly at Bilbo.


	22. Battle

Bilbo took the spear full in the stomach and toppled backward off of the boulder, landing on his back with a huff as the wind was knocked out of him. The spear could not puncture the mithral, but it was still a good punch in the stomach, and landing on the ground didn’t help.

Groaning, Bilbo rolled over and panted for a moment. _That’s what you get for not sticking to the plan,_ he thought dizzily. He could hear the grunting of the Orcs on foot getting closer, and gritting his teeth, he struggled to his feet. He stood for a moment, bent over, hands on his knees, and looked at the spear.

Oh, now the army was really in an uproar below him. It occurred to him that they did not know that he wasn’t speared through.

Swallowing hard, forcing himself to breathe, Bilbo grabbed the spear and stuck it under his arm, letting the point stick out behind him. From a distance, from the right angle, it would look as if he was staggering around, still alive, with the spear through him. Might as well see if there wasn’t some advantage to the Orcs believing he was mortally wounded. They did like to play with their food, as he remembered.

Coming from around the rock, Bilbo clutched his stomach and staggered away, the spear apparently protruding from his body. Orcish laughter, rough and savage, echoed off the rocks as he waddled about, bent over and unsteady.

“Mirdautas vras!!” Bilbo heard from one of the pursuing Orcs, a squawking sneer that ended in a guttural rumble. _Vras… oh, that’s 'kill,'_ he remembered. 

Doubled over in pain that wasn’t completely fake, Bilbo kept tight clutch of the spear under his arm and continued his unsteady path closer and closer to the crevice in which Dwalin hunkered, and the rock behind which Legolas waited.

Above him, the door to the smial opened and Zilur and Valur came running out—as planned—shouting loudly, “Bilbo, come in quick!! We must shut the door or the Orcs will get in.” 

Then the two dwarfs saw the spear and, not realizing that it wasn’t actually through their Hobbit friend, broke into a roar and yanked their axes from behind their shoulders. 

Glancing back, Bilbo realized his pursuers were rather closer than he was comfortable with. Picking up his pace, he scrambled upward until he heard, startlingly close, “VRAAAS!!”

Whipping around, he realized that the nearest Orc was lifting his sword and it occurred to Bilbo… he did have a spear. Suddenly he remembered all the times during his captivity that an Orc stood over him, arm raised to give him a beating, or throw him against the wall, because he was small and frightened and unarmed. And he remembered poor Nolli.

Bilbo was never sure what came over him, but suddenly he felt a burning, red-hot flash of outrage. Pulling the spear from under his arm, Bilbo pointed it toward the Orc’s belly, shouted “NAR UDAUTUS” and charged. 

The Orc paused for the briefest of moments, apparently nonplussed by a charging Hobbit with a spear yelling “Not today!” in Black Tongue. In that pause Bilbo drove the spear into its pale gut, spilling black blood on the rocky mountainside as the Orc crumpled around the shaft with a warbling scream.

The flash of courage left as quickly as it came. Horrified by his own actions and the snarling faces of the two Orcs behind him, Bilbo let loose of the spear with a mouselike squeak, turned, and ran up the mountainside as fast as his Hobbity feet could carry him.

Behind him, Legolas and Dwalin emerged from their hiding spots and launched into battle. In front of him, the Lur brothers hefted their axes and blazed past him, shouting their war cries. Below them, the infuriated Bolg urged his slavering Warg up the rocks toward the little red jacket still bobbing tauntingly up the mountainside.

Following Bolg was about one hundred roaring, snarling Orcs. 

Pouring out of Dale came the Men, screaming their rage and attacking the Orcs from behind.

From over Bilbo’s head the archers rained down their arrows.

From behind the mountain on either side charged the dwarfs, their armor clanging in the sun, their axes chopping Orcs down like trees.

Bilbo ran until he reached the round green door in the mountain, and then turned, flattening his back against it in terror, watching the carnage below.

He’d never seen battle before.

The sun glinted off the swinging metal, and the mountainside rang with the clash of swords and the thunderous cracks of war axes chopping through limbs and bouncing off stone. The hoarse cries of rage and screams of pain sent tremors through the Hobbit.

He should go into the smial and retreat into Erebor. That was what Thorin wanted him to do. But what if one, just one Orc got past the archers, emerged from the battle, and reached the smial? Oh, there were dwarfs inside stationed inside Erebor for such an event, and even if the Orcs got in, the heavy rune-carved doors just inside were ready to blockade. They wouldn’t get far in.

But… but they’d have access to Bag End. And this was all Bilbo had left. Yanking open the door, Bilbo darted in, grabbed the little blade Kili had found for him in the armory, and stepped sturdily back out again. He closed the door and locked it. Then he turned, facing the battle, and held his blade in a fierce grip.

Bilbo watched the battle just down the mountainside, still breathing heavily. Oh he was hot! He pulled off the red jacket and tossed it aside, and then stood in his mithral shirt, waiting.

_Just one of you try coming into this smial,_ he thought fiercely. 

As the battle raged, but drew no nearer, Bilbo calmed gradually. His stomach settled, and stopped hurting so much. His breathing steadied. He crept a bit closer and settled behind a large rock, peering over it at the fight.

Legolas had run out of arrows and was fighting with two blades, dancing over the tops of the rocks like a leaf in the wind. Bilbo watched him in awe… it was one thing to hear descriptions of Elvish skills. It was another to see it. Even as he watched, the Elf smote several Orcs and then turned and hurled his sword through the air, skewering an Orc who was just on the verge of clobbering Bofur with a spiked mace.

Bofur lept out of the way, yanked the sword from the falling Orc, and turned and whipped it through the air, end over end, back to Legolas, who caught it and kept fighting. Bilbo blinked rapidly… what a team they were!

A ways away, Dwalin was chopping and roaring, and pale Orc limbs were just flying off. Terrifying.

And how cowardly was he, Bilbo, hiding behind this rock, watching his friends fight??

Just as this shameful thought crossed his mind, Bilbo saw exactly what he’d feared: a single Orc making his way through the battle with his eye on the round green door that must mark an entrance into the legendary gold stash of Erebor.

Bilbo hesitated for a moment, but the thought of Orcs smashing his mother’s china sent him skittering out from behind the rock, and he charged into the side of the Orc as it passed, burying his little silver sword into the pale, fleshy side of the stinky creature up to the hilt.

The Orc let out a roar of pain and swatted Bilbo with one mighty arm, sending him flying onto the terraces, where he landed, rolled, dropped to the next level, rolled again, and finally slid down into the rocks below and sank, stunned, between them. In the shadow cast from the mountainside, the mithril did not shine or glint. It blended with the gray rocks in the cool shadows, and Bilbo, unmoving, became more or less part of the landscape.


	23. Aftermath

When Bilbo finally came to his senses, battered and dazed, the air had cooled and the sounds of the battle had faded away. He rolled over and groaned, feeling his head gingerly. Bit of a bop there, not terribly serious, but –oh his hair was full of dirt, and he had blood on his face, a bit, he could feel it, and his hands were just caked with dried black Orc blood. Disgusting.

He pulled himself up and sat leaning against a rock, looking up at the terraces above him, and the mountainside above that. The sun was well behind it. Hours had gone by. 

Bilbo fished around under his mithral shirt and found his handkerchief in his trouser pocket, using it to clean his face a bit. Yes, he felt rather bruised. He didn’t even know where his little sword was, or his jacket. He waited until he was sure he could stand and walk without vomiting, because that was a serious consideration right now. 

Finally, after a bit, he decided he was right enough and clambered shakily to his feet, and began the process of climbing back up the terraces. This morning’s Dancing Hobbit was nowhere to be seen as Bilbo clumsily scrabbled back up to his smial and stood wavering, looking around. 

Well. 

Where was everyone?

He tottered around and then scrambled carefully up onto the viewing rock, where he saw the cheering signs of dead Orcs being piled up for burning down on the plains. No signs of any actual fighting going on. No live Orcs anywhere. Plenty of dead ones, though.

Sliding back down, which jarred his aching head and made him wince, Bilbo made his way to gaze down the mountainside to where the majority of the battle had taken place. Oh yes, blood and bits of armor all over, and a few dead Orcs still laying about. Down on the path to Dale, humans and dwarfs and elves all seemed to be mingling about without any frantic air… 

“Hmp. Well, I guess we won,” Bilbo mumbled to himself. He wanted to find out how all his friends had faired, and get the details of the battle’s end, but… yes, he really did not feel very well right now. That bop on the head may have been a bit more bothersome than he knew.

“Perhaps I’ll just… tend to myself a bit,” he said under his breath, and turned and made his way back up to his green door. He tested the handle. Yes, still locked, good. Fishing around in his pocket, Bilbo found the key and let himself in, locking the door behind him again. 

Tottering about rather drunkenly, the Hobbit inspected his smial and found it in fair order, other than crow feathers and some dishes that needed doing. Checking himself in the mirror, he saw a pale and bedraggled fellow, with blood still around the edges of his forehead, and really just an overall mess.

“A bath,” he decided wearily. “A bath and then a nap and then some tea and THEN I suppose I’ll be more sociable.”


	24. Thorin

Ori stood outside the royal chambers with clean towels in his arms, and tears on his face. He paused, wanting to get himself under control. Inside that room lay Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, and in many ways, Ori’s hero. And he was badly wounded. He might not be conscious. If he was conscious, he’d be in agony, both over his wounds, and over the unknown fate of his Hobbit. And that was the other reason Ori was crying.

No one knew where Bilbo was. They knew the Orcs had made it all the way to the smial, or at least one of them had. They found Bilbo’s jacket and his little sword, but no Bilbo. 

The news had sent the King into a frenzy, and he was already wounded when Zilur came barreling down the mountainside, waving the red jacket, frantically looking for the fine little fellow he’d so recently befriended. Thorin looked up, paled, and gave a long, loud anguished cry that raised chills on the skin of those who heard it. 

Then he plunged into battle again, with a vigor that bordered on hysteria, heading straight for Bolg himself. The Orc had turned to see the black-clad dwarf with the long, flowing hair charge at him with an axe aloft in one hand, a sword leveled in the other. The Orc leader stood in the stirrups of his mount, who turned its ferocious head toward the threat, bearing its dripping teeth. Thorin swung the axe down, burying it high in the beast’s neck, and using the handle to drag himself right up onto its back.

With his other hand, he drove the sword into Bolg’s gut.

Bolg was mortally wounded, but he did his best to take the Dwarf King with him. With all his dying strength, as he fell from the writhing warg, he swung his mace with deadly effect at the roaring dwarf king balanced on top of his mount. They fell together onto the rocks of Erebor.

Now, Oin and Tauriel were working frantically to make sure that in death, Bolg did not succeed in drawing Thorin after him. And they needed clean towels. So Ori wiped his face, lifted his head as bravely as he could, and entered the royal chambers.

“Hold still, Thorin, laddie, ye must hold still,” Balin was trying to keep the thrashing, delirious king immobile while Oin and Tauriel struggled to clean and dress his wounds. Ori put the towels at the foot of the bed and stood wringing his hands, his eyes taking in the long, damp strands of sweat-soaked hair lying spread and tangled on the pillows. 

There was a great deal of blood on the sheets, and Tauriel’s face was clenched with worry as she packed the poultice onto Thorin’s chest and held it there. 

“I can’t stop the bleeding,” she said helplessly, and Oin came from the fireplace to her side with fresh strips of cloth for bandages. 

“Not too much pressure here,” he directed urgently.

“I know! I know, but we must stop it, or—“ Tauriel’s voice cracked, and Ori backed away and sidled out the door, the tears slipping down his face again. The door closed behind him and he stood in the passageway outside the royal chambers and cried quietly for a long time.

Down in the throne room, Dwalin was seated at the base of the throne, the red jacket bunched in his hands, and his head hanging down broodingly over it. It was difficult to tell if he was overcome with remorse over the fate of the Hobbit, or furious with the Hobbit for so enthralling his King that his disappearance had driven the King to such a reckless, suicidal stand. No one dared speak to him. He held the jacket, white-knuckles bulging, and sat unmoving as he waited for news of Thorin’s injuries.

In the armory, Fili and Kili were having a tense conversation.

“If they took him, we can rescue him, but we can’t just gallop off right now,” said Fili urgently.

Kili was clutching a sword, and his brother was clutching him. “They’ll kill him.” Kili whispered. “They’ll… they’ll eat him! We have to go after the ones who escaped!”

“They’re on wargs, we’d never catch them. And we don’t know how badly Uncle is hurt.”

“They’ll stop and make camp. We could sneak up on them!”

“We can’t leave Erebor while Uncle is unconscious. We don’t even know for sure if they took Bilbo.”

“Fee, only a few got away, we could take them!”

“No, Kili, no, I’m sorry. I feel the same way you do, but we cannot just gallop off after them. We… we might have to… if Uncle doesn’t…” Fili trailed off, afraid to even voice his thoughts.

Kili’s hand slipped from the sword, and he turned and let his brother squeeze him tight. 

“We have to wait, just for a while." Fili said unhappily. "Wait and see for sure what we should do.”

They stayed in the armory for a while, not wanting to show their faces until their eyes stopped leaking so.


	25. Bilbo

Bilbo rose from his nap feeling better. He ate a bit of bread and ham, and had a spot of tea. It was just after sunset when he finally looked into the mirror and decided that he looked no worse for wear. Bit pale. Still rather unsteady on the feet. 

He peered closer into the mirror and thought that one of his pupils looked a bit larger than the other, which… he seemed to remember that this wasn’t a good thing. 

“Perhaps I should see Oin. Just check,” he breathed, and then nodded slightly. And his neck hurt.

_Oh very well then._ Bilbo tucked in his shirt, and slipped on his dark green jacket, and fingered his hair into place, and decided he’d hid in his smial long enough. Time to go out and see what the situation was in Erebor. 

Leaving via the back door that exited directly into the passageway, Bilbo stepped out, staggered a little—yes, still a bit dizzy—and went in search of Oin. Perhaps he had some tea or salve or something that would straighten Bilbo up a bit!

He passed Thorin’s chamber and considered stopping in to see if the king was there, but decided that Oin and medicine should probably be his first priority. Besides, it sounded like there were people in there, several of them. Busy, then, well… Bilbo was still not really speaking to the King right now anyway.

Carefully descending the stone steps nearest the main hall, Bilbo paused partway down and looked about himself. It was fairly empty. Ah, the humans had gone back to Dale, Elves back to Mirkwood, everyone back to normal then. Good. Danger is over, everyone goes home, fine indeed. As for the Dwarfs… where were they? Oh, outside finishing up their Orc burning party, no doubt. Well, perhaps he’d join them after he… what was he down here for? Oh yes, Oin.

Padding silently across the hall toward the infirmary, he noticed a hunched figure near the throne. He stopped and stood uncertainly for a moment, swaying slightly.

Dwalin? That looked like Dwalin. Hm. Bilbo’s policy was to avoid Dwalin, so he tip-toed past him unnoticed and into the infirmary, which was… empty. No one here.

Bilbo was beginning to feel a little uneasy. Where was everyone?? He stood for a moment, looking around.

_Armory, we’ll check the armory,_ he told himself. He made his way to the armory and found it standing open, with Fili and Kili asleep on a pile of furs inside. They looked very comfortable. In fact, they looked so comfortable that Bilbo slid down into the furs with them, forgetting why he’d come down at all, and curled up and went to sleep as well.

*** 

“Fili, wake up,” Kili whispered, jostling his brother frantically, staring at the curly head sunk in the fur near his foot.

Fili came awake with a start and a sniff, and then a stretch. “What?” 

Eyes wide, silent but agitated, Kili pointed a shaky finger. Fili rolled his head to see, and came fully awake with a gasp. Both dwarfs scrambled to their knees, clutching at each other as they stared.

“Is he alive?” Kili asked, and they both leaned over the curled up form and inspected it carefully.

“He is… Oh… we must tell someone—“ Fili breathed.

“We must tell everyone!” Kili corrected, and then reached out with both hands to gently shake Bilbo awake.

“Bilbo? Bilbo!”

The Hobbit awoke with an instant scowl. “Oh, stop that,” he muttered. His eyes were not quite open.

“Are you alright??” Fili asked, reaching out to clutch at Bilbo’s green jacket.

Blinking himself awake, Bilbo turned his head and saw the two handsome young dwarfs staring down at him in rapture. “Fine. Fine. Bit of a head-ache. And you?” He asked politely, more out of habit than anything else.

The brothers looked at each other in astonishment, and then Kili blurted, “Where have you BEEN all day??”

Bilbo rubbed his forehead. “Oh, I got a bit of a toss by an Orc and ended up below the terraces. I guess I hit my head… a bit. Nothing to worry about.”

Fili swallowed and asked gingerly, “Have you seen Thorin?” He meant: _have you seen what happened to Thorin?_

But Bilbo only shook his head. “No. He’s probably outside.”

Now the brothers looked at each other with dread. “We’d better take you to him,” Fili decided.

Bilbo winced. Thorin had told him to stay inside the mountain, and of course he hadn’t listened. Now he was injured, and he was in no mood to deal with whatever Thorin’s reaction was likely to be.

“I’d rather see Oin. My head hurts. Let’s not tell Thorin about it, hm?” Bilbo managed a smile that was more of a pleading grimace.

“No, you don’t understand—“ Kili began, but Fili cut him off with a nudge.

“Yes, why don’t we take you to Oin. He can look at your head.”

Kili tipped his head, puzzled, and mouthed silently _Oin is with Thorin,_ pointing up toward the royal chambers. Fili nodded with raised eyebrows as if to say _Exactly._

_Ooooh,_ Kili’s lips shaped, and together they helped an unsuspecting and slightly discombobulated Hobbit up from the furs, out of the armory, and up to the royal chambers.


	26. Oin and Tauriel

Inside the royal chambers, Oin and Tauriel were in quandary. They had stopped the bleeding—for now—but the fever was raging, and so was Thorin. Oin looked frazzled, his thick gray hair standing out at the sides, and his looping beard braids askew.

“He’s doing himself more damage,” the Elf-maid fretted, watching Oin and Balin try to hold down the thrashing King. 

“Eh?” Oin barked, unable to hold up his hearing horn while holding down a squirming patient.

“Damage!” She cried, pointing at the spot of blood appearing on the fresh bandages.

“Argh! Damn. If we can get the tea into him, we may be able to settle him down,” Oin grunted. “Forget his arm, Balin, lay across his legs before he tears out every stitch we put into his guts.”

Balin threw himself over Thorin’s churching legs. Tauriel edged forward with the tea, but Thorin waved his arm wildly at her, calling out hoarsely for his Hobbit in Khuzdul. Some of his remarks made the dwarfs glance at each other.

“We shouldn’t be hearing this,” was Balin’s opinion.

Oin grimaced, but continued to hold down the one arm he was able to reach. “If we can just get the tea into him,” he repeated.

Thorin’s eyes, however, did not see them. Lost in delirium, he was certain that Orcs were tearing Bilbo to pieces, and in his mind’s eye, the red jacket lay in a pool of blood in some dank Orcish cave, while his Hobbit screamed for Thorin to save him. This had been going on for some time now, and while his caretakers were at the end of their strength, Thorin seemed unstoppable.

Then the door to the chamber opened and they turned to see Fili and Kili supporting a vision that bloomed like a flower in the dust to them: Bilbo, alive and well! 

“Bilbo,” Balin gasped, still sprawled over Thorin’s legs. “Come, come in lad, come in where Thorin can see you!”

For a moment, the Hobbit just stood in the bedroom, staring at Thorin in the bed, noting the heavy white bandages wrapping his torso, in the center of which grew a spreading stain of red.

“What…??” he came forward, and they could see his gait was not steady or straight. He looked more confused than concerned. “Thorin?” 

When he got to the side of the bed, he stepped up on the stool that was always tucked just underneath, and leaned over his wounded lover, who grew still at the sight of him.

Bilbo took in this astonishing sight: Thorin, pale and sweating, dark circles under those magnificent eyes, hair a damp, tangled mess. “He’s bleeding,” Bilbo muttered, bracing his hands on the pillows to keep his own balance.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said hoarsely, reaching for his head.

“No, no, don’t—“ Oin grappled one arm back, “—don’t let him pull you on top of him, he’s injured.”

Bilbo evaded the grabbing hand and then caught it and held it in his hands. “Oh, he’s burning up!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said again, and then launched into a guttural stream of Khuzdul that sounded like protestations and promises, not that Bilbo understood a word, but Thorin’s eyes were shining with a mad light, and it was best to nod along, the Hobbit realized.

“Yes, yes, okay. Of course. Certainly.” He looked back at Tauriel. “Is there anything…?”

Quickly, she offered the cup she’d held so nervously with both delicate hands. “See if you can get him to drink this.”

Bilbo managed to free one hand and then took the cup and brought it to Thorin’s lips. Obediently, the king drank. Tauriel sighed in relief, rubbing her forehead, and Kili came to her side. They embraced quietly, stepping away to hover near the fireplace.

“Just like that,” Oin sighed in a combination of relief and irritation. “You don’t know how many broken cups we’ve cleaned up…. Here, get him another! We need him calm so we can check how many stitches he’s torn.”

Fili came to the bedside. “Let me help. Oh, and Bilbo got knocked on the head, so he may need some tea as well, or something.”

“Eh? Oh. Well… Here, hold an arm,” Oin grunted, and relinquished his position. Fili took his uncle’s arm, but now there seemed no need. He’d quieted and lay staring up at his Hobbit, clutching his hand and murmuring words that only the other dwarfs could understand.

Oin straightened his aching back with a sigh and trotted around to the other side of the bed to look into Bilbo’s eyes. “Oh no, that sort of tea is the last thing you need. You’d never wake up again. I’ll brew a different one for you, just for the pain. No wine or ale! You’ll be alright in a few days if you don’t jar it again.”

Bilbo coaxed another cup of the medicinal tea into their patient. Then he climbed up into the bed to sit at Thorin’s side, stroking his hair and watching with widening eyes as they unwrapped the bandages around his gruesomely injured torso.

“But… but what happened??” Bilbo asked, his fingers unconsciously tightening around Thorin’s hot hand.

“Battle,” said Balin. “He killed their leader, but he took a mace to the chest in the process.”

“Bolg? Thorin killed Bolg?” Bilbo gasped, and turned to stare down at his wild-eyed lover in renewed admiration. “Well done!” He smiled, and Thorin brought Bilbo’s hand to his lips and kissed it fervently, continuing his mutterings in hoarse undertone.

“What is he saying?” He asked, after a moment.

Oin pulled up his horn from the string and put it to his ear, listening for a moment. Then he nodded, dropped it, and gestured to Tauriel for more poultice. “He’s promising to come and save you.”

“Save me?” Bilbo asked, watching confusedly as the three ministered to the bloody wounds.

“He thinks you’ve been taken by the Orcs,” Fili explained softly. “We all thought so. Zilur and Dwalin found a wounded Orc by your door with your red jacket in his hands. Dwalin killed the Orc, but we all thought another of them must have taken you. We looked all over for you—“

“My jacket,” Bilbo said dazedly. “Oh, no, I just took it off because I was hot.”

They all paused and looked at him for a moment. “You were hot,” Balin said flatly.

“Well yes, you know. In the sun.”

Balin gave a huff of laughter, and they returned to re-bandaging their king. “That will teach us to jump to conclusions,” he remarked, shaking his head.

Thorin finally fell silent, the tea taking effect, and his deep blue eyes grew heavy. He stared off into space, blinking slowly as Bilbo stroked his hair.

“But he will… he will be alright though, won’t he?” Bilbo asked, and Fili’s face turned to Oin with the same question. By the fire Kili glanced from Oin to Tauriel and back.

There was a long silence. Finally, Balin said, “He might do quite well, if the fever goes down. If it goes up, it’s a sign of infection inside, and… the chances are not very good. If it stays steady without going up or down, it could hurt his brain eventually.”

“So…?” Bilbo found himself growing cold. “So you are not… not sure?”

Again, the cautious silence. Finally Oin sighed. “He’s strong. And we cleaned the wound well. He did lose a great deal of blood, though, and if he were conscious and would eat and drink, that might help, but so far we couldn’t even get water down him.”

“But now Bilbo is here,” Tauriel said quietly, and cast a soft smile on the worried Hobbit. “He will drink if you give it to him.”

Nodding uneasily, Bilbo shed his green jacket and carefully slid farther down into the bed at Thorin’s side, cuddling up to him. Sleepily, the king turned his face toward his Hobbit and muttered something in his husky voice. Then his eyes closed and he seemed to be resting peacefully.

Bilbo lay with him, eyes on the thick white bandages all about his king’s chest.

Now he couldn’t even be decently angry with Thorin, he thought wryly. _He’s a hero. A half-mad hero, but still. My hero and my king._

Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment, turning to rest his head on Thorin’s bare shoulder. 

_Oh, Thorin,_ he thought. _If you die on me after having ripped my house out of the Shire, it will truly be the most awful thing you’ve ever done._


	27. Delirium

The day passed into night, and then morning again. The mood in Erebor was gradually shifting from ebullience to worry. At first, the victory over the Orcs had left the Dwarfs and Lakemen jubilant with savage glee. They piled the Orc bodies up and burned them. They buried their (very few) dead, and brought the wounded to the infirmary. They went back and picked through the Orcish armor for trophies; this was great fun.

But word eventually spread that King Thorin was badly wounded. The Hobbit had been found safe (brave little fellow, he killed two Orcs! Well, he killed one and left another with a pretty good puncture, anyway.)

For Thorin, the night was a haze of confusion and pain. Sometimes he was traveling through endless dark and dripping tunnels in the Ettenmore Mountains, trying to find Bilbo and rescue him. His Hobbit was in a cage in the dark, shivering and crying, and waiting for his king to come! But the tunnels turned and twisted endlessly, and while he met no Orcs, he could hear their laughter and jeers echoing about him. And he could not find Bilbo.

Other times, he was in his own bed, but Bilbo had died, and his ghost hovered accusingly about the bed, urging Thorin to drink waters and broths and tea. The king had the vague idea that if he grew well and went to save Bilbo, he would be alive again, and no longer be a ghost, if Thorin would just hurry.

But when he tried to get up, the Dwarfs would push him down again. Sometimes it was Dwalin, sometimes Balin or Oin. His sister’s sons often came in to try and reassure him that Bilbo was fine, Bilbo was here, but Thorin felt they were lying to him.

He tried to explain it to Bilbo, that he would come as soon as he could. That he was sorry he had moved Bag End, except that he was NOT sorry he had moved Bag End, because they were meant to be together and he couldn’t move Erebor to the Shire so moving Bag End was the only choice, but he would rebuild Bag End after he had rescued Bilbo from the Orcs. He would kill every Orc who’d laid a finger on Bilbo. He would make Bilbo a long leather coat out of their skin! 

For Bilbo, the hours were heart-wrenching. When Thorin spoke Kuhzdul, of course, Bilbo caught nothing but his own name, and sometimes Bag End, so he decided to assume Thorin was apologizing profusely. When he spoke Common, it was often assurances that he was going to go skin the Orcs and avenge Bilbo.

“Just let me put this on your forehead,” the Hobbit sighed, replacing the cloth already there with a cooler one. “I don’t know why this fever won’t go down. I sent a crow with a message to Mirkwood, but really, I don’t think they have any healers who are better than Tauriel,” he said. He wasn’t sure how much Thorin understood… often his eyes wandered when Bilbo spoke.

But Bilbo, nevertheless, kept up a running stream of commentary partly out of nervousness.

“Well, at least you chose apt carpenters, I’ll say that. They did a marvelous job. I daresay that’s the best hobbit hole any mountain has ever seen. Certainly holds heat well. But,” Bilbo took another cloth and wiped down Thorin’s strong, naked arms with it, “I’m not happy about it. That is—“ he sighed, “—had you just built me a little Hobbit hole that was similar, but perhaps smaller, and we’d furnished it with whatever we could build or buy over the years, you know, that would have been more than enough. A few of my things from Bag End would have been a nice, homey touch.”

Bilbo put the cloth aside and leaned to look into the wandering eyes. “But to pull up the whole thing?! Now if ever I wanted to leave Erebor, where would I go? And I know you, I know that’s exactly what you were thinking,” he added meaningfully. 

But his hands reached out to stroke Thorin’s hair of their own accord. “And if you die on me, I swear… staying here without you would be painful, painful, I’d never get over it! You didn’t think this through, you know.”

He reached for more water and urged the king to drink. Blinking, Thorin’s attention came back to him and he drank. “Did you ever think what would happen to me if you were gone? I’d be so alone here. I mean, I love your nephews and the company, but…”

He started to say, “the Shire is my home.” A moment of reflection made him pause. “Of course it’s true that I could never just stay put in the Shire,” he admitted in a low voice. “Whenever I'm away, I miss it, but whenever I was there… I grew restless.”

Bilbo looked up to see that Thorin’s eyes were closed. He directed his gaze to the bare chest and assured himself that his king was still breathing. Then he rose and got another cold compress for the hot forehead. When he returned, he stood over his unconscious king, gazing down at the fiercely handsome features, so pale and drawn in the firelight.

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal, Thorin Oakenshield. Listen!” Bilbo leaned over him, and Thorin’s eyelids flickered open. “If you live, I will forgive you for moving Bag End. But if you die, I swear I’ll hate you till I die too. I’ll have to. Hating you is the only way to survive if I have to face this world without you and without my home in the Shire. I’ll journey to Rivendell, live with the Elves, and hate you as hard as I can.”

Tears welled up in Bilbo’s eyes and ran down his face, but he sniffed and ignored them. “Those are my choices, aren’t they? Because if you go, you take everything with you. I really don’t see any other way. Thorin… Thorin… you’d better survive!”

A knock at the door interrupted these musings, and Bilbo wiped his cheeks self-consciously and lifted his head, determined to keep a brave face. He went to the door and opened it to find Tauriel and Kili, looking hopeful for the first time since the day before. Tauriel had a small leather bag in her hands.

“Thranduil sent me these herbs…” she whispered, so as not to wake the sleeping patient. “They are part of his own private supply; very powerful, very pure…. May I?” 

Bilbo ushered them in quickly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Get Dwalin and Oin, in case he starts thrashing again when he sees me,” Tauriel said wryly. “And stay close?”

It was good advice. Thorin slept while they carefully removed his old bandages, and Bilbo cringed at the long, jagged wounds held together by large stitches, and the purple bruising extending out in all direction. But when Tauriel applied the poultice, which must be as warm as the flesh can stand without burning, he awoke with a moan and his eyes grew fierce. He clearly believed he was under attack, or being tortured. It took Dwalin, Oin, and Kili all lying on him to hold him down, and again the fear was that he’d tear himself open again.

Biting his lips, Bilbo watched in misery, tears standing in his eyes. To see Thorin wracked with pain and fear was nearly unbearable. Finally, he crawled up onto the bed and put his face to his king’s head, putting his mouth to Thorin’s ear, and just talked to him.

“Thorin, it’s Bilbo. It’s Bilbo, I’m here! Look at me, can you see me? Can you feel my hands? It’s Bilbo, please, stay with me, stay with me. Be calm. It’s going to be okay, but stay with me, stay with me…” He didn’t know how long he spoke, nor much of what he was saying, but it worked. Gradually, the king calmed, breathing in great, heaving pants, his hands making fists of wadded sheets, and his eyes frantically turning, searching for Bilbo. “I’m here! I’m here! I’m right here, I’m fine, and you’re going to be fine too…”

“Alright, let’s get him re-bandaged quickly,” that was Tauriel, her long red hair mussed from her portion of the tussle. 

When it was over, they stood back from the bed, except Bilbo, who remained at his lover’s side stroking his wild hair and saying soothing nothings to the dwarf who continued to stare up at him as if afraid to lose him by glancing away.

Bilbo, noticing the silence, looked up to see Dwalin watching him with an introspective air. Then the warrior turned away. “I’ll bring more wood for the fireplace,” was all he said.

Oin stepped forward again, feeling Thorin’s head. “Still hot. It’s just too soon to tell. I’m going to give him another dose of my tea. He’ll sleep, and Bilbo, you might need a bit of a break too.”

Bilbo wanted to be noble and insist that he would remain by his king’s side night and day, but in truth, this was overwhelming. He swallowed and nodded, and when the tea was ready, and cooled enough to drink, he cradled Thorin’s hot head in his arms, coaxed it down him, and then applied cool towels until the patient drifted off to sleep.

“I’ll take over for a bit. You go rest,” Balin told him, with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Gratefully, Bilbo took his leave and retreated to his smial, entering through the side door. He made it to his dining room table and sat down with his elbows on the table and his face in his hands.

All that energy and power that Thorin had was like a force of nature. Bilbo imagined him lying cold and utterly still. What a horrific shock it would be. _If he dies, I’ll have to sit by his body and stare for days before I can believe it,_ he thought with a shiver.

“Oh, he mustn’t die. He mustn’t die,” Bilbo muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. Finally, he leaned back and opened his burning eyes. It was daylight. Sun was coming in the great round picture window, and the smell of the wood and plaster, of his dish soap and tea, was comforting. 

He sat and looked about him. All his belongings were here now, with him. In reach. And it was quiet. And there was sunlight. He sat for quite a while, feeling the quiet peace. Finally, aware that he’d barely slept for two nights running, Bilbo got up and staggered to his bed, and it was good to feel the familiar sheets, and his mother’s quilt, and the smell of the fresh nightshirt from the cedar wardrobe.

“I’m still angry,” he told himself, but there wasn’t much energy behind it. It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep.


	28. Watching

When Bilbo awoke, the sky was barely lightening. He’d slept the afternoon and night away! Why had no one come to update him on Thorin’s condition? Was there news they were afraid to tell him?

Rising with a groan, he washed his face and ate a few bites of pie, but his appetite was remarkably low. After a bit of basic grooming, he dressed himself, bolstered his courage, and went to check on Thorin.

Entering the royal chambers, he found Dwalin and Fili by the fire, with Oin still in attendance. They all lifted their heads when he came in, and Oin left the bedside to come to Bilbo.

“The fever is lessened, and he’s sleeping peacefully. I think we may be on the good path!” Oin told him quietly, but with a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

Bilbo took a few deep breaths and realized that his chest had felt constricted only by the sudden lessening of that constriction. He passed Oin with a quick, grateful squeeze of the old dwarf’s arm and went to look down on his sleeping king. The ghastly pallor was definitely less marked. The shadows beneath the closed lids did not seem so intense.

But the lines between Thorin’s thick, dark eyebrows seemed deeper now, and the muscles around his eyes seemed tense even in his sleep. Bilbo considered the wound in his torso. The mace had smashed into his chest and dragged across his stomach, breaking ribs and tearing through skin and muscle. He was going to hurt for weeks.

“What can we do for the pain?” Bilbo turned to ask.

Oin came back to his side and peered at his patient. “He shouldn’t be feeling anything at the moment. I’ve medicated him but good.”

The Hobbit tipped his head, reaching to feel the high, wide forehead, and run his hands over the white streaks flowing back from his hairline. “He looks so unhappy, even now.”

Oin’s deep-set eyes twinkled at Bilbo. “I think that’s more your department, my boy.” Then he turned and gathered up his bag and his cloak. “I’ve been here all night. I think I’ll take a bit of a rest myself. You’re feeling better?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, his hands restlessly moving down over Thorin’s arm. “Is there anything I should do for him?”

“Let him sleep. We’ll change the bandages again this afternoon. If he does wake, try to get some liquids down him. Broth is best, and water.” Oin gave a mighty yawn. “Send for me if he takes a turn for the worst, but I don’t think he will.”

After Oin had gone, Fili came to sit at Thorin’s bedside with Bilbo. They both sat quietly for a while, staring contemplatively at the sleeping king.

Presently, Fili tapped Bilbo with the back of his hand. “Hey. Do you want to see my impersonation of uncle polishing a bit of metal, back when we were in Belegost?”

Happy for a bit of distraction, Bilbo nodded.

Fili stood and braced his feet wide apart, adopting a stern, intense look. With his hands, he mimed holding something with one hand and polishing it with the other. As he went on, his head lowered further, and his eyes grew wider. His lips thinned and the polishing grew more fervent. His face grew more and more focused and wild-eyed as his brows drew down in a fierce scowl.

Bilbo started chuckling and brought his hand to his mouth, trying to stay quiet. Fili kept polishing vigorously as if he were trying to destroy metal by rubbing it to death. 

Soon, Bilbo had tears in his eyes, and was doubled over in silent laughter. Over by the fire, Dwalin was biting his lips and shaking his head as if he disapproved of himself for laughing.

Fili finally stopped and let his own natural winsome expression take over his face again. 

They all looked quickly at Thorin to make sure he was still asleep.

“That’s… that’s very good.” Bilbo admitted, wiping his eyes. 

Fili put his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and gave the Hobbit a look. “You know, uncle is… well… he just is what he is. Right? He can’t help it. But you should know, when he thought you were injured or dead, he was… he went after that Orc as if he… he just…”

Bilbo nodded, patting Fili’s hand. “I know. I know.”

They all gazed on Thorin for a bit longer, and then Fili said, “I’m going to go get some breakfast. Should I bring you up anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” Bilbo said. He picked up Thorin’s limp hand and studied it. Well, those fingernails were turning into claws. He supposed he could busy himself tending to whatever personal needs he could without disturbing his patient.

As Fili and Dwalin left the room, Bilbo looked up in time to see Dwalin give him a polite nod before he closed the door.

“Well,” Bilbo mused, still staring at the door. “Coming from him, that was practically a kiss.”

Then he got up and went into the bathing chamber to find what he needed to clean and pare Thorin’s fingernails.


	29. Consciousness

Thorin became aware of flickering firelight, and pressure on his arm and chest. Blinking awake, he turned his head weakly on his pillow and saw a familiar form snuggled on the bed at his side, curly head leaning on his arm, which was above the blankets. The pressure on his chest apparently came from his entire torso being tightly swathed in bandages.

He looked down at the white cloth swaddling his chest, and then turned again and stared at the curls, trying to piece together exactly what had happened. He was aware—in a vague sort of way—that the battle was long over, that he was injured, and that the kingdom was apparently still intact. He was aware that something had happened to Bilbo, but then at some point the Hobbit had returned and was now present. That was rather all that he knew.

“Bilbo,” he whispered. 

The curly head lifted and Bilbo turned to look at him with sleep-weighted eyes. Then he sat up and gave his face a quick rub. Emerging from behind his hands, Bilbo tipped his head a bit and gave Thorin a look that was fairly friendly. 

“Well, look who finally woke up,” Bilbo said quietly, a slight smile on his lips.

Thorin was too tired to do anything but lie there and stare at his Hobbit, who stared back at him in contemplation. It was a still and peaceful moment.

But soon, Bilbo straightened his back and said, “You need water,” and slipped off the bed to fetch a cup that he brought to Thorin’s lips.

Thorin managed to tip his head up and drink a bit, but it hurt the torn muscles in his stomach to move even slightly, and he sighed with relief when his head sank into the pillows again.

Bilbo went and got more water and drank it himself. Then he came and climbed carefully back up onto the bed. Thorin winced at any jostle, but held out his arm in invitation nevertheless.

“Come… tell me what happened,” he said in a rusty voice.

Rather than cuddle under his arm, Bilbo sat at his side, took his hand in a gesture more comforting than romantic, and said, “Well, first of all, you killed Bolg. In case you didn’t remember.”

“Mmm.” Thorin’s heavy eyes wandered over his Hobbit.

“But I’d like to think I helped, for I made him wild with rage first. I mooned him in front of his whole army.” Bilbo said matter-of-factly.

Thorin stared. “You what??”

“I did. I got up on a rock, called his name… I recognized him, you know. He used to kick me on a regular basis, back in the days before Smaug. Well! He looked up and I turned my back, dropped my trousers, and waved my perfect buttocks in the sunshine at him for all to see.”

A grin spread over the king’s face, and the chuckles that emerged made him grimace with pain even as he smiled. “Don’t make me laugh,” he gasped.

Bilbo waited until Thorin was under control again. “Um… he threw his spear at me, but of course I had on my mithral shirt that you so kindly gave to me long ago. Then I got chased by three Orcs, and I stabbed one of them right through with Bolg’s spear.”

Thorin raised his brows. “You did?”

“I did,” Bilbo said calmly. “So I’m a killer now, you’d best be aware.”

“Indeed,” Thorin said huskily, eyes loving.

“Then Legolas and Bofur and Dwalin all jumped out and it was chaos from there on end. I took off my red jacket and hid by my front door. When an Orc made it up there, I stabbed him, and he gave me a smack that send me flying through the air and bouncing down the terraces. When I woke up, it was all over. I—“ here Bilbo looked down to toy with the long fingers in his grasp. “—I didn’t know you were injured for the longest time. I had a bit of a bump on the head, you see, and… I—I just didn’t know. I didn’t know much for a day or two, or I’d have been here sooner.”

Thorin moved his fingers in response to Bilbo’s tentative caresses. “I thought they had taken you.”

“I know.” Bilbo murmured. “In your fever, you shouted all sorts of things. In fact,” he looked up and added lightly, “you did promise me an Orc-skin coat. But I think the dwarfs burned all the corpses, so perhaps I can score a bit of armor as a souvenir, and that’ll be just as good.”

Thorin’s eyes were all smiles. “Come lie with me,” he invited in a whisper, but Bilbo grew evasive and placed Thorin’s hand gently on the furs. “I think I’d better call Oin to come and check on you. You need food, and you need your bandages changed,” he said, and despite Thorin’s murmur of protest, Bilbo slipped off the bed and went to the door. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promised brightly, and left Thorin alone in his room.

Sighing, the king turned to stare into the fire. Bilbo’s distant friendliness was not lost on him. 

Outside in the passageway, Bilbo leaned against the closed door for a moment, one arm wrapped around himself and the other over his eyes. Thorin would live. He was awake, his fever was gone, he was talking… and Bilbo was in tatters. Part of him was so relieved, and so in awe of his heroic king. Having seen him now in full leadership mode, rallying his people with his powerful voice and his thrumming energy, leading the charge, slaying the enemy, battling even death… his personal magnetism was never more present in Bilbo’s mind.

Hearing him cry out hoarsely for his love in the midst of his fever brought back to Bilbo the wildness of his gold-sick days, but now his only sickness seemed to be for his Hobbit. He could still see his king lying on the pillows, his hair a black and silver waterfall, his eyes burning blue and focused utterly on him. Thorin loved him, wanted him, needed him, and was… magnificent! He was magnificent!

He was also the arrogant possessive psychotic bastard who’d dug up Bilbo’s home and brought every damn thing the Hobbit possessed into his own domain, under his control, and was not even sorry for it!! _Not even sorry for it!!_

Bilbo trotted quickly out to the terraces and let loose a caterwaul of rage into the cold morning air. He jumped up and down a few times, picked up several rocks, and threw them with all his might in no particular direction. Then he stared at his bench, still tipped over and dusted with fresh snow. He burst into sobs, and punched himself on the thigh two or three times. Then pulled his hair for a bit, gnashing his teeth. At last, he gave another snarling moan that drew out so long and low, any nearby crows would have taken flight if they’d heard it.

Finally, he panted, wiped his face, tugged down his jacket, gave his scalp a good scratch, sniffed, nodded bitterly, shook his head disbelievingly, sighed long and heavily… and then went to tell Oin that his Royal Mighty Romantic Heroic Psychotic Nightmare of a King was awake.


	30. Gloin

Winter was fully upon them now. Bilbo sat in his smial, every lantern, candle, and fireplace lit, and watched as the snowdrifts covered his windows. Only the picture window had a bit of clearance at the top where the morning sun peeked in. But it was fine, it was fine, he told himself.

Winters just required a bit of coping, Bilbo knew—they did have winter in the Shire, too, of course. Not usually quite as wind-whippingly violent as at high altitude on a Lonely Mountain, of course, but… it wasn’t like he’d never seen snow before. So he got up every morning and stoked the fires. Gloin kept him supplied with logs ( _now that the picket fence was all gone,_ he thought with an irritable pang.) The red-haired dwarf brought them up to the side entrance, so there was no need for anyone to brave the wind and snow.

Bilbo smiled slightly as he stoked the fire, remembering Gloin’s first visit. He’d stood proudly at the door with his offering of firewood, brought in a wheelbarrow. 

“Chopped it myself,” he proclaimed, and then leaned to gaze past Bilbo into the smial, his eyes lit with curiosity.

“Thank you so much! Won’t you come in?” Bilbo said with a knowing smile.

“Well, I suppose I have a moment,” Gloin breathed, and came in with his rolling gait, stroking his magnificent, flowing beard absently as he peered around at every corner and crevice. “Pantry?” He asked, pointing.

“Take a look,” Bilbo said equably, glancing over at the wheelbarrow full of firewood. Yes, that would do for days, he was sure. How did Gloin get it up the stairs??

“My, that’s a goodly-sized pantry! Mighty fine. Shelves good. Who made it?” Gloin peeked back around the corner at him, eyebrows bristling.

“I believe my father commissioned it from Blue Mountains,” Bilbo told him. “Do you think you have time for a bit of a drink?” 

Gloin stepped back out of the pantry, thumbs hooked in the heavy leather belt under his belly. “Well, might do with a drop,” he nodded, eyes still moving. “Oh, I brought ye something else. Still in the passageway,” he turned sideways to slide past Bilbo, who looked after him quizzically and then went to get the brandy Balin had sent out of the cabinet.

When he turned, Gloin was carefully bringing a very long black spear into the smial. It was so big, it had to come in horizontally, and Gloin was bringing it in pointy-end first. Bilbo stepped quickly out of the way.

“What on Middle Earth…?”

Gloin passed through the kitchen, the shaft narrowly missing Bilbo’s mothers vase, and propped it near the living room fireplace, on an angle as it was too tall to go straight up. “Have to mount it on an angle too,” he suggested, pointing at a likely spot over the mantle.

“Uhm…” Bilbo stood with the brandy decanter in his hand and his mouth open. “I…?”

“Ye don’t recognize it without the Orc blood, eh? Cleaned up nice!”

Bilbo blinked.

Gloin gestured at the spear, “It’s the one you slew the Orc with, boy! You’re Bilbo Orcslayer now!” He turned back to admire it. “Nice one.” He nodded.

“Why, thank you! Thank you very much, that’s… very touching.” Bilbo said, so torn between wincing and giggling that he managed to do neither.

“I brought tools to mount it with, too.” Gloin said, slapping the leather bag hanging from his belt. “Here, you pour that brandy and I’ll get… can I use this steppin’ stool?”

“Uhb, of course!” Bilbo said, and retreated to the dining room to pour their drinks. He stood for a moment, and then decided that really, he should add a bit of cake, too, in honor of the long, black, vicious, pointy instrument of death being mounted over his quaint little Hobbity fireplace. It would go nicely with the books, and the pinecones, and the pictures of his parents.

When Gloin was done, which was shortly, he stepped down from the stool and turned to Bilbo. “Now, the shaft is just sitting on the brackets, because that way if you need to use it again, you just step up here, and grab it right off the wall! Just step, grab, and HAH!!” He pantomimed snatching if off the wall and jumping down into a threatening stance, his red hair wild behind him.

“Amazing!” Bilbo said, with the plates of cake in his hands. “That’s… just what every Hobbit hole needs.”

“Darn right,” Gloin said, taking his cake.

But that was two weeks ago, and now Bilbo was actually quite accustomed to drinking his morning coffee below the spear. Winters, he reflected, just required a good schedule. Fireplace, breakfast, clean-up, bit of reading… then he would go to see Thorin.

Bilbo had learned that if he wanted to avoid being alone with his king, which he did indeed want right now, it was best to go at lunch. Balin, Dwalin, Fili, or Oin were usually in attendance, and in fact, usually in twos. Bilbo would come brightly in and join them for lunch, full of casual chatter about his day, and solicitous inquiries about Thorin’s state of recovery. He’d prepare Thorin’s plate for him and bring it to him with the greatest courtesy.

Then, ignoring the silent, pleading looks in Thorin’s eyes, he’d chat with whoever was there, and help as Tauriel came to aid Oin in changing the bandages and checking the wounds. He helped Oin bathe the king. He helped change the sheets on the bed. Then they’d stay and have a spot of tea.

The minute any dwarf or elf made a move to leave, Bilbo was on his feet to help them carry away dressings, or plates, or anything that would take him out of the sick room.

“Bilbo,” Thorin might say, and give him a telling look. 

“You’re looking so much better!” Bilbo would say, smiling cheerily, and then leave as quickly as he could.


	31. Mixed Emotions

Of course, it wasn’t long before Thorin lost what little patience he had and started coming up with excuses to require his Hobbit’s attendance.

Dwalin pounded at his side door one day to inform him that Thorin felt his hair needed tending to.

Bilbo came at once with smiling good cheer, but let Dwalin know that he really must stay to help him move Thorin around, as he couldn’t safely use the muscles in his stomach yet. Thus Thorin lay on his back, sulking across his bed on the leather apron, with his head as close to the edge as possible, while Bilbo carefully poured warm water over his hair.

“Dwalin, could you get me some more hot water from over there… I’m so glad you’re here, I couldn’t possibly do this without you. In fact, if Ori or Fili were here too, it would be even easier,” Bilbo said. He tried to ignore Thorin’s reproachful blue eyes directed up at him as he gently lathered the hair he still adored.

When he’d finally finished, and Thorin was back on his pillow, the hair clean and combed, and as dry as Bilbo’s assiduous toweling could get it, Bilbo leaned forward on impulse, closed his eyes, and kissed Thorin’s forehead. _Because I do love you,_ he thought, eyes still closed.

Then, without making eye contact, he pulled back and put away the grooming items, and told Thorin and Dwalin both that he really must go now and talk to Dori about something, and left. _Because I also kind of hate you._

When he glanced back as he was closing the door behind him, Thorin was staring down at his own toes in gentle woe.

“Dori? Oh, he and Nori have been gone for two months,” Ori told him, up in the library. “Remember? They went to the Blue Mountains to visit relatives. I sent them crow-mail about the battle. They were livid that they missed it.”

“Oh.” Bilbo said, embarrassed that he had forgotten their absence. “Well. I was just going to ask about buying another rug for the entryway. There’s a bit of a draft… I know Dori’s made some good contacts with the weavers of Mirkwood.”

“I can look into it for you. What color do you want?” Ori asked brightly.

“Something in a nice shade of crow poop? Just for winter.” Bilbo said.

“Right,” Ori smiled. 

Down in the kitchen, Bombur turned to see Bilbo there and bounced on his toes with glee. “You’ve come back!”

Bilbo, rather ashamed of himself, came forward and gave the portly cook a hug. “Yes, I suppose I hid in my smial long enough. I want to thank you for keeping me fed.”

“Ah, well. If I had a home like that, I’d stay in it too.” Bombur cast him a side-eye, “Partly to make sure no one moved it again while I wasn’t looking.”

Bilbo surprised himself with a bark of laughter. “Okay. Yes, that’s… that’s a consideration these days, isn’t it?”

“Mm. I was just about to make a whole fleet of pumpkin pies… don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping? I know Royal Consorts have meetings to attend and Kings to placate, but if you’re in the mood…” Bombur leaned over, “or you need an excuse to be where you’re hard to find…?”

“It’s like you’re psychic!” Bilbo told him. “Where shall we begin?”

By late afternoon, they were having a companionable coffee together as the pies cooled. 

“You know,” Bombur told him, “there’s someone still who hasn’t seen your smial yet, and is just dying to, but is too shy to come up himself.”

Bilbo paused over his coffee, his mind going over the dwarfs who had visited. “Bifur,” he realized, remembering with a smile how frightened he was the first time he ever saw him. And he was the shy one!

“Aye.” Bombur said.

“Hmm… how to lure him up. Say!” Bilbo said. “My father’s pipes, several are broken, and I don’t know how to mend them…?”

“Ah yes. Bifur is the one for the job.” Bombur nodded wisely.

“Perhaps he’d even bring me a bit of tobacco in return for…?”

“Take one of the pies and I’ll send him up in an hour.” Bombur said comfortably. “In fact, I’ll give you a box to take it up in, and you can set it outside to chill. But in the box, so—“

“—the crows don’t get it. An excellent plan,” Bilbo nodded, satisfied.

An hour later, Bilbo lay in wait, pie chilled, wine at hand, two broken pipes forlornly on their sides on the kitchen table (bait) until he heard a tap at his side door.

He opened it with a smile, and Bifur bowed very low, his black and white braids nearly brushing the floor. Then he straightened up and wordlessly offered a bag of tobacco. 

Bilbo took it with a grin and then stepped aside with a flourish. “Won’t you come in and inspect my humble abode?”

With a shrug and a bit of pleased shoulder-wriggle, Bifur stepped in and began his tour.


	32. Dwalin

Bilbo got away with his avoidance for another week, but then his time ran out.

Dwalin came to his side door late one afternoon to inform him that the king would be very grateful if the Royal Consort could come and redo his braids.

Stalling, Bilbo gave a courteous gesture. “Would you like to come in?”

Dwalin hesitated, wavering on the step, and then his curiosity won out over his lingering reluctance to become too friendly with Bilbo. He’d worked his way up to basic politeness, and felt that was quite enough.

But it was true he’d never seen a Hobbit hole before, and this was clearly a fine one. 

Finally, with a sigh, he stepped inside and took a quick tour around, his eyes most interested in the framework and curved ceiling, and his eyebrows occasionally registering flicks of appreciation.

“Nice spear,” he said drily, and then turned and faced Bilbo. “Thorin is waiting for you. You can’t avoid him forever.”

Bilbo almost put his hands on his hips and was very close to protesting that he wasn’t avoiding the king at all, he was in there every day! But Dwalin’s cool gaze was not to be prevaricated to.

“I don’t see why not,” he finally admitted. Then he lifted his chin in faint challenge. The one (and only) good thing about his frigid relationship with Dwalin was that he could probably be honest with him. “Why can’t I avoid him?”

“Because Oin and Balin and I are ready to return to our normal duties and lives, and sleep in our own beds at night.” Dwalin said bluntly.

“You can do that—“

“He can’t be left alone at night,” Dwalin said. “He might need something and try to get it himself. And… he still has bad dreams at times.”

“I see.” Bilbo said grimly. “And I suppose he’s my job, now, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Dwalin stated firmly. “And his condition is partly due to you.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Now Bilbo’s hands _were_ on his hips.

“He wouldn’t have charged Bolg if he hadn’t thought—“

“Oh, no, he’d have just let Bolg go on attacking Erebor—“

“No, but he’d have let him retreat!” Dwalin snapped. “And they were on the defensive.”

“Well.” Bilbo said, and simmered for a moment, thinking. “Ah! Well! If Thorin hadn’t moved my home here, we wouldn’t have used this plan with me as bait!”

“And if he weren’t so in love with you, he wouldn’t have moved your home!” Dwalin returned instantly.

“Oh! Oh, so this is just all my fault no matter how you look at it!” Bilbo said, eyes wide and dark with anger.

Dwalin heaved another sigh and looked around. “No. It’s my fault.”

Bilbo’s anger receded a bit. “How is it your fault?”

“I should have returned with him to the Blue Mountains two and a half years ago when he was goldsick. I let him go with just Fili, and he felt abandoned by us all. Then you came.” Dwalin looked over at him, and then away again.

Bilbo’s shoulders dropped back to their normal level. “I see. Huh. If you’d been there, you’d have chased me right off, wouldn’t you?”

Dwalin’s look said it all. Bilbo nodded, finally understanding at least the mindset.

“But you weren’t there. One thing led to another, and here we are.” Bilbo mused.

“Here we are.” Dwalin agreed, eyes far away. Regret, Bilbo could see it. Well, he could actually sympathize, little fond as he was of the warrior dwarf. Because he certainly understood regret, didn’t he? Apparently they both did.

Bilbo gave his forehead a frustrated rub and then nodded. “Alright. Fine. I’ll be there in a moment. Go on ahead.”

Dwalin cast another look around and then lowered his eyes and left quietly.

Bilbo went to the bathroom and washed his face thoroughly, and cleaned his teeth, and fingered his hair into place. Then he tucked his shirt in tightly and gave a tight nod into the mirror. Time to go and be obedient consort to the King again.


	33. Alone Time

When Bilbo entered Thorin’s chambers, he was surprised to see the King not in his bed, but wrapped fetchingly in a black silk robe, sitting in his easy chair by the fire. Fili and Balin were there, and they all seemed to brighten when Bilbo entered. 

“Now, do Oin and Tauriel know you’re up like this?” Bilbo scolded lightly. “I don’t want to get the blame.”

Fili poked at the fire. “Oin says it’s time Uncle used his muscles a little, but just a little.” He smiled over at Thorin. “No dancing.”

“I’ll try to refrain,” Thorin said wryly, and did his best to look relaxed, but his antenna was up and following Bilbo about the room. 

“Well, let me just get all the—“ Bilbo gestured to the bathroom chamber, and went in to fetch the brush and comb, and a bit of salve. 

When he returned, Fili and Balin were making their exit as if anxious to flee before he could return and stop them. The door was just closing behind them. Bilbo swallowed and went to stand behind his king, placing his grooming kit on the table at his side.

“Do you—“ Thorin turned his head, “Do you want a bit of wine first?”

“No.” Bilbo said shortly, and gathered up the warm, heavy hair, and pulled it gently over the back of the chair so that he could begin brushing carefully through it.

Silence fell as he slowly performed the familiar task.

“Bilbo?” Thorin said quietly. 

“Yes?” Bilbo was being very professional.

“Do you still love… my hair?” 

Simmering, Bilbo replied, “Yes, I do. I wish I could cut it all off and take it back to my smial so I could admire it _without you attached to it.”_ The last five words came out with a fair amount of bite.

Thorin’s sharp features split into a wide grin, and Bilbo could see his shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh, you enjoy seeing me angry.” Bilbo commented, setting the brush aside and glaring at the back of Thorin’s head.

“No, no.” Thorin sighed, his smile dying away. “… It’s just better than seeing you heartbroken. Or distant.”

There was a poignant silence, and then Bilbo picked up the brush again. He worked quietly, trying to ignore the familiar, warm, spicy scent of his lover. 

“You don’t want to share my bed anymore.” Thorin finally said.

“Sickbeds are always single beds.” Bilbo said primly.

“But now that I am better?” Thorin was glad Bilbo was behind him. He didn’t want the fear in his eyes to be seen.

“Well, I don’t know, Thorin. You brought my home here, beds and all. Presumably you meant for me to live in it.”

Thorin heaved a sigh. “That wasn’t at all what I meant, no.”

“Didn’t really think it through, did you?” Bilbo added, coming around to begin a braid.

“No, I guess I did not,” Thorin said in defeat, and sat with eyes cast down as Bilbo braided his hair.

Bilbo finished the braid and fixed a bead to the end, and then stood for a moment, looking at his king, sitting so regally, his hair flowing about him, the fine white skin so pale against the dark locks. His eyes were downcast still, and he was the perfect picture of noble, tragic, rejected love.

Bilbo closed his eyes in a sudden surge of emotion. _Don’t you dare, don’t you DARE make me feel guilty, Thorin Oakenshield. This is your fault from beginning to end, and you aren’t even regretful or ashamed, and if you make me feel sorry for you, I swear… I swear…_

Teeth clenched, Bilbo opened his eyes to find Thorin gazing at him in something like fear, his hands clasping the arms of his chair.

“You hate me,” Thorin husked out.

Bilbo had to work to control his breathing. His whole body felt hot. He had to get away from Thorin, if only a few paces. He turned and went to his old writing desk, sat down, and buried his head in his arms.

Unable to rise from the chair without help, Thorin could only wait, head turned as far as he could, trying to see Bilbo in his peripheral vision. He saw Bilbo sit down and put his head down, and nothing more was said or done for a long while. Finally, Thorin turned his face back to the fire, worry written all over his features.

In a while, Bilbo calmed and returned to do the other braid. Thorin was very still and quiet now, unwilling to ask any more questions. Bilbo bit his lower lip and finished the braid, affixing a matching bead to the end.

At last, he looked Thorin in the eye and said, “I just don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Thorin gazed cautiously up at him, and neither of them seemed able to look away from the other, or speak. They were saved, finally, by a tap at the door.

Bilbo went to find Oin and Tauriel, come to check on Thorin’s wounds. They had removed the stitches, finally, and across his torso was a long, ragged red scar with fading bruises.

“All right, my king, I think it’s time to get back into bed. But tomorrow, we’ll get you up again and you should try walking a bit.” Oin said.

Tauriel turned to Bilbo, “Once he’s upright, he’s fine, it’s just the process of getting to his feet, or lowering himself back again that’s difficult. The muscles were badly damaged. Fortunately, muscle heals better than any other part of the body. But it will take time.”

“I understand.” Bilbo said.

“But…” she glanced over at Oin, who was now helping Thorin out of the chair and toward the bed. “You can stay here with him at night. He’s past the stage where any movement hurts him. Of course, he can’t… you can’t… do anything strenuous,” she said carefully, her pretty face turning a faint pink.

“No playing Ride the Wild Warg, eh?” Bilbo couldn’t resist.

Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes were wide over it. Finally she lowered her hand, face pinker than ever. “No. No, don’t… play that.” She managed, and then moved away from him, throwing a wondering glance back at him as she retreated to the safety of Oin’s side.

Bilbo let her go with a smirk, and then told the three of them politely that he was just going to pop down and let the kitchen know they should send up supper for two. 

“Can you just stay with him till I come back? I’ll attend him after this,” Bilbo said, and let himself out. 

After notifying Bombur, Bilbo went back to his smial and collected his pipe and tobacco, a book, and something to sleep in. Then he smothered the last of the fire in the fireplace and glanced around. He knew there was nothing he needed. He was just bracing himself for his return to the king’s bed. Even though Thorin was too weak to play with him in any way, he’d be back in that familiar place, surrounded by that intoxicating smell, listening to that rumbling voice in his ear.


	34. What's Done is Done

Dinner was a quiet affair, conducted with a surface peace covering roiling unrest. They ate on trays in the bed. Thorin was mostly smoldering looks and dignified silence. Bilbo was concentrating on the mechanics of eating as if dropping a fork would cause it to explode. 

“More wine?”

“Please.”

When it was finished, Bilbo took the trays and placed them outside, as always, and they were now in danger of facing their evening alone together.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes. That was my first time sitting up.”

“How long were you up?” 

“Most of the afternoon. Balin had paperwork that had been waiting. I told him to bring it by.”

“Ah.”

Bilbo slipped into the bathing chamber to change into his nightclothes, and emerged to fetch his book. Thorin watched him closely as he made his way about the chamber, turning down the lanterns, except the one on his side of the bed, and finally climbed into the bed, sliding under the covers.

“Would you like me to read to you?” Bilbo asked politely.

“What is your book about?” Thorin’s voice was soft.

“The history of Rivendell.”

Thorin’s voice dropped an octave. “No.”

Bilbo managed not to smirk. He opened his book and did his best to read. At his side, Thorin lay back on his pillows, his head turned toward his Hobbit.

Silence. Pages turning. Sheet rustling.

“Bilbo…”

Bilbo gave him a warning look out of the corner of his eye.

“Bilbo, what’s done is done.”

And now the tenuous peace was done. Bilbo snapped the book shut and tossed it on his table.

“Is that so??”

“I do understand how you feel—“ Thorin began.

Bilbo stared at him. “I don’t see how.”

“You feel that your home is no longer under your control. It’s how I felt when you let King Dain convince you to—“

Coldness washed over Bilbo and his eyes could not get any wider.

“Oh! Oh… oh no, oh no, no…” he panted, getting to his knees. “Is that why you did it? Revenge? After all this time??”

Thorin’s eyes widened too as he belatedly realized he’d just made the situation worse. “NO!! No, no, Bilbo I swear,” he tried to sit up but was speared with pain. He clutched his stomach with a shout of agony, falling back on the pillow.

Bilbo looked ready to leap off the bed and land near the door. His eyes were horror-stricken.

Thorin lay gasping until the shards of pain receded. He swallowed. “No, please, Bilbo, that is not what I meant. I only meant that… that I understand now the enormity of what I’ve done, in your eyes. That it equals what I felt you did so long ago.”

Bilbo was still poised for flight. He stared at Thorin accusingly. “Well, you got your pound of flesh then, didn’t you? You made your displeasure felt.” He panted for a moment, looking around the chamber without seeing anything.

Thorin clutched the sheets and said nothing, eying his Hobbit. He didn’t want Bilbo to run, but he couldn’t just leave it alone.

“Do you understand,” Bilbo continued, turning his eyes back on Thorin, “do you understand that whenever we clash, I come out the more damaged? That my… my place in the world is a little less certain every time? Whenever we clash,” Bilbo clenched a hand to his heart, “I lose!”

Carefully now, Thorin managed to roll over on his side, his features clenching with pain until he was able to settle comfortably. Every fiber of his being longed to reach out and gather his Hobbit to him, cuddle him close, kiss him until he softened in his lover’s embrace. But he couldn’t. He had nothing but his voice and his eyes.

“Bilbo, we were happy… before I did this. Weren’t we?”

“Yes, and you just couldn’t let it be, could you.” Bilbo muttered, finally relaxing his pose a bit.

Thorin said nothing.

“Why did you do this, why now?” Bilbo asked him, almost pleading.

Thorin’s eyes dropped to the sheet. Then he looked up again. “Why were you studying Sindarin?”

Blinking at this change of subject, Bilbo stuttered. “I… I don’t know, I just… my mother left me some books in Sindarin and I always wished I could read them. I mentioned it once to Legolas and he encouraged me to try, he brought me that book from Thranduil…”

“... Your _mother?!_ ” Thorin said, as if that was the last answer he'd expected.

“Yes, she traveled a lot when she was—“ Slowly, it dawned on him. Bilbo looked over at Thorin in dread. “Did you think I was planning on running off to Mirkwood or Rivendell again?”

Thorin lost interest in making eye contact. “Not at all.”

Bilbo stared at him. “You did. You did! I remember now, you asking all those questions about that book—“

Thorin looked up at him guiltily and then back down again. “I don’t remember.”

“Oh stars,” Bilbo put his hand over his mouth. “Oh stars. Thranduil gave me a book, and you ripped my home out of the ground.”

Thorin clutched his pillow uneasily, eying his lover tensely. Bilbo was staring at nothing. Finally, the Hobbit lay back in the bed, mostly in shock, and stared up at the ceiling. 

Thorin lay on his side still, staring longingly at him. Finally he said quietly, “And now you hate me.”

Bilbo shook his head helplessly, not knowing what to say. He had once assured Thorin, “you’re not actually mad.” Now he wondered if this was true.

They lay in the darkness for a long time like this, Bilbo absorbing it all, and Thorin doing his best not to absorb any of it. Finally, he reached out and put a warm hand on Bilbo’s arm.

“Even hatred is better than indifference,” he said sadly.

Bilbo finally looked at him again, at the harsh features that could still glow so warmly. The beautiful hair, the loving eyes, the power and majesty of him. His mad, mad king.

“I will never be indifferent to you,” Bilbo said, not as reassurance, but as a simple, stunned admission. Then he looked back at the ceiling, his mind going over the last few months. “No one could ever be indifferent to you,” he added. It wasn’t a compliment, again, just a statement of the awful truth. He shivered.

“You’re cold. Come, let me warm you,” Thorin whispered coaxingly. “I have missed you, Ghivashel. Come, just let me hold you.”

Bilbo hesitated, his mind awhirl, but Thorin pulled at his arm just a bit, whispering encouragement and finally, his Hobbit slid slowly over to him, not daring to refuse. Thorin wrapped his arms carefully around his lover, and nuzzled his ear gently. Bilbo closed his eyes, feeling the comfort of the familiar warmth, the lure of the beloved scent. 

_But he’s mad. He’s absolutely mad. Valiant, heroic, driven… and mad as a hatter._

“In the spring, we’ll plant ivy all around it.” Thorin promised, squeezing him tighter. “It’ll grow and spread. You’ll make it beautiful again.”

Bilbo turned in his arms and buried his face in Thorin’s hair. “Alright,” he whispered. Another shiver went through him, and Thorin pulled the blankets up around them, cuddling him closer to his own heat. Bilbo kept his eyes closed and let him.

Because what’s done is done, isn’t it?


End file.
